Sorry for the delay, we had finished this yesterday But my computer overheated so badly that I had to shut down twice yesterday.
A Little advance warning
While it was a problem, it was Ruth's problem, as it were, so she was the one that had called the meeting. The ministers of Commerce, Finance and of Shin Bet had been called, and sat in her office. She assured they had beverages and then sat facing them. She remembered meeting them, aboard what was once Felicia III; Harrel who had taken the name Forten, and Kate who had taken the name Vesey; both famous Abolitionists in history. Donald X, head of Shin Bet was an Audubon Ballroom retread, but was well versed in security on the operational level at least.
"I have called this meeting because we have a problem with security at the ministerial level." She began, sipping her Earl Grey tea. "Harrel, you did good work getting the tunneling equipment so quickly, and as soon as the company in charge of the honey collection gets moving, we'll have a luxury export item to sell, which is a big plus.
"However, we need to insert an overwatch function into the mix. Berry and I were surprised by how quickly the work was done. But with the first seats in the Citizen's House now filled, we're going to start taking flak about how lax we have been to date. There is the possibility that some of the cabinet positions are going to come under direct fire by the opposition, and you three are going to be among those they want to replace as incompetent."
Herrel seemed to swell up like a bullfrog. He was one of the J Line series, a technician, but well capable of heavy work, or a violent rebuttal, if needed. "Incompetent?" He asked in a softly furious voice.
Ruth raised a placating hand. "Please, Harrel, none of you would have kept your positions for the last two and a half years if you weren't competent. When Berry assumed the throne, she promised elections as soon as we had a constitution. We have one. The elections happened, but we hadn't considered how many people would rather be in charge than be merely citizens." She explained the new House, and light dawned in their eyes.
"And you all know the first rule of politics, especially the adversarial version of it. 'How can we make them look bad as fast as possible'. You are going to come under fire because the entire Victim Island subway was installed before we noticed it." She held up her hand. "That is not a complaint. You delivered reports, and other things kept us from paying attention to them. So it is our fault we were blindsided. But by tweaking the insults, he can make it look as if you jumped the gun and didn't pay attention. There are also companies in the queue that were chosen because they are not Sollies that have played fast and loose in getting agreements from your department." She turned to Kate.
"I expect them to attack you, Kate, because you haven't merely printed money to cover our deficits. I know it's the first thing any new country tries to get out of debt quickly, but it's also one thing that smashes them from the start. I don't know how well grounded you all are in Earth history, but people conveniently forget that the original communist party in the First Soviet Union didn't control their nation from the start; they took over seven months later after the newly formed democratic nation didn't just wave a magic wand and fix all of the problems caused by several centuries of mismanagement.
"I also expect them to point at the people working for you both, and say it is a form of nepotism. Everyone there is from the original 3,000 of the Hope. Again, we know you chose people you knew and trusted, and Kate you have watched over Finance like a hen with only one chick. You have explained to those who did make stupid suggestions why they were, and I know four have been let go because they wouldn't listen."
"More like they did not understand why their 'brilliant' suggestions wouldn't work." She chewed her lip reflexively. "You do know that two of them are 'financial advisers' for Wittman now."
Ruth smiled a little at that. "Oh we kept track of all four of them. The other two are talking heads on HD now. But at least they aren't sitting there and telling the people that you're not doing your job right." She looked at Donald.
"You, I think will catch the most flak, Donald. Because except for a few dozen, every one of your people are all Ex-Ballroom."
"So?"
She sighed. How many of Wittman's SA have applied for Shin Bet in the last five months?"
"One hundred and seventy, so far as of when I left the office today."
"And how many have been accepted?"
"Not a one." Donald shrugged. "When we put out the request for additional agents, I had the applications sent to my desk. The odds of that many men answering the questions the exact same way is statistically impossible. When I had their backgrounds researched, they were all senior SA members, the same guys you saw supplying security only for the 'Progressives, and dealing harshly with hecklers. That I can prove for every mother's son of them. A number of them died rather abruptly trying to force the Dragon Quarter to vote for their candidate. And my own agents, what we have of them, reported that the 'accidents' that limited voting in the other settlements were led by the ones still alive.
"So I can honestly say that anyone who puts partisan politics ahead of the well being of our people doesn't belong in our ranks."
"Can you prove this?"
"Flatpics and HD recordings in a lot of cases. Maybe twenty to thirty percent I don't have that much. But enough to show a pattern."
"Good." She looked to Harrel. "We're going to hold of on starting the collection of honey until Jamie begins his work. I sent the specifications for the Habitat that Jamie and Kerin designed. Do we have enough people to handle the refitting of the LAC we need?"
"Yes." Harrel told her. "We have enough of those antique suits Manpower stored up." He sighed. "God help them."
The Guardian Angels
Captain Marc Steuben looked at the overhead. He sighed. "Space: the place we've been stuck in for too bloody long.
"These are the voyages of HMS Generous. Its interminable mission, to discover strange new worlds someone else will get to name and explore; to seek out new life and new civilizations that someone else will get credit for contacting; to boldly go where no man in his right mind would ever want to go."
The woman snuggled against him raised her arm from his chest, searched upward until she found his face, and slapped him gently. "I should have never have introduced you to those ancient movies."
"Brun my love, am I lying?"
She curled up like a kitten in a warm space. "No. But bitching about it won't save us."
He sighed. "Agreed." His annunciator sounded, but it was not for him. Steward 1st O'Neil had set his system to let him know if it was him or his exec that was being called.
Brun growled, leaning across, her finger from long habit hitting the audio only button. "Exec here."
"We're coming over the wall in ten minutes."
"Understood, Guns. Don't bother the captain. I'll wake him." She thumbed it off, and sighed. "I know, break is over, back on our heads."
He snickered, puling her up to kiss her nose. "All the shit we go through to hide our relationship."
She grabbed his face, shifting to his lips. "Skipper, do you honestly think our officers are blind fools?"
He kissed her back, the kiss deepening. He pulled back. "No matter what the Admiralty thinks they are, I think they can see a church steeple by daylight." He nipped at the tip of her nose. "Besides, is someone reported us, what would they do? Assign us a never ending mission to the back of beyond again?"
"If you weren't a lech, I'd suggest sharing the fresher. But since I know you-" She rolled from the bunk and was in the fresher before he could react.
He chuckled, rolling out of his bunk to wait. Then he grinned. Better yet... He walked over, using the command override. She squealed as he joined her in the shower.
On the Bridge of HMS Generous, Toby Cantrell, the Tactical officer stood as the Exec followed by the captain entered the bridge. He hid a grin as he moved to his position. After years serving together, the bridge crew moved smoothly. Of course they'd had far too many years to learn that crisp style. Steuben looked around, and his heart sank. So many lives destroyed.
"Coming on hyper translation, sir." The navigation officer, John Esom reported.
"The destroyers?"
"Dropping with us, skipper." The young man replied.
The four ships dropped from hyper, the flash of their footprint warning Torch of their approach. The Illustrious class cruiser sat in the center of the triangle of the three older Manticoran destroyers. The oldest of the trio was the Chanson Class Descant, with HMS Bulldog and HMS Firefly. Ahead of them, the picket Frigate turned, and began moving toward them.
"Sir, we've getting a lot of grav-pulse sidelobes from what look like FTL recon drones." Tawny Riebeck, his communications officer reported. "They read... as Manticoran recon drones. Mk 8s."
"That's odd." Stueben commented. He looked at his repeater. The signals were coming from the ecliptic, so if they had access to them, the Torches knew not only what they were, but who they were. "Tawny, message to the Frigate."
"Ready to record, sir."
"This is HMS Generous, Captain Marc Stueben commanding with escort squadron 4251. Will hold position until cleared."
"Hold position, sir?"
"There have been ships of these older classes lost in Silesia and during the war, Tawny. They could have been refurbished as privateers, or sold by the old People's Republic, so just having ships of these designs doesn't mean we're actually manned by Manticorans. The Torches might wish to verify our bona fides."
"On the chip, sir."
"Send it."
"Sir, signal from Descant. She has received and verified our identity via grav signal communications."
"Inform Commander Parker that the day he is in charge of the squadron, he can authenitcate as he pleases. Otherwise, it is the province of the senior officer, who, if I remember correctly, is me."
"Yes, sir."
Steuben bit back a further blast. The honorable Gregory Parker, third son of Castor Parker of Sagramor province on Gryphon was an officious bastard on the short list for promotion to Captain JG. Knowing his father, he would be promoted out of zone to Senior Grade, which meant he had made yet another enemy soon to be senior. As it was, he had so many enemies the little bastard could wait his turn at the knife.
The squadron waited the nineteen minutes it took for his own message to be receipted and verified, then they headed in system at a comfortable 500 gravities. His own ship had never gotten anything better than a Grayson Mod 3 compensator, and he wondered which idiot messing with him had screwed up in that regard. Of course it meant his own ship was capable of over 150Gs less than his consorts. It also meant Generous could not keep up with a modern squadron, even of older Illustrious class that had the newer compensators. If the man he thought was doing this had really been in charge, he was surprised that they hadn't ripped out the impeller rooms and installed old fashion oars like a goddamed galley!
An hour later, they slowed to orbit the planet Liberia, where Manpower had installed a fuel refinery and depot, and tanked up. Then they headed further in system, arriving in orbit of Torch after almost two hours.
There were a flurry of signals, including the one he had anticipated. It seemed every time things got tense, someone at the Admiralty sent orders for his ship to head somewhere innocuous. They had been in Beowulf until right before Second Manticore, and had been sent to Erewhon. With the threat estimates suggesting the Sollies might use their smaller combatants to raid Manticore's commerce, he knew from bitter experience it would happen again. While undergunned thanks to her design, Generous was still faster than anything in the Sollie inventory large enough to force her into combat. But no one seemed to want to let him release his frustrations for real.
He made a bet with himself before opening the signal. Yep, off to Matapan yet again. He wished he wasn't such a stubborn son of a bitch. He could have splattered his own brains across a bulkhead almost two decades ago. He looked across the bridge where Brun stood. If he had killed himself back then, he would have never grown to love that woman. And killing himself now would only leave her unsupported.
"Assume orbit, Johnny."
"Assuming orbit, aye, sir." The Lieutenant put her in orbit as if he'd done it every day of his life. He remembered when the young man had come aboard as an ensign six years ago, then he'd been promoted out to... Sagacious wasn't it? Then back here as a senior lieutenant last year. Everyone but Ensign Kun Ming had been aboard more than once. "In orbit, sir."
"Good man." He tapped the annunciator on his chair. "Finished with engines, Bryn."
"I hear that." Her voice came back. "Do we have time for a maintenance cycle? We missed our refit slot thanks to the orders for Erewhon."
"I don't know. I'll check with Torch Orbital control." He waved to Tawny who was already signalling.
"Torch approach to HMS Generous, Welcome!"
"Thank you for that Torch. We're supposed to escort a convoy from here to Erewhon? Seven ships according to my records."
The woman brushed her hand through the Mohawk hairdo. "Seven? Mine say nine. Three Manties, three Havenites, Two Erewhonese, and One Andy." She looked at the screen to her right again. "Yep, nine. Might be ten if you wait another day." She paused. "Can you hang by for three more days?"
"May I ask why?"
"We have four of our own registry headed to Haven, Manticore and the Andermani Empire." She grimaced. "The Erewhon navy reported unknown vessels detected at long range between here and their space. Since we're at war with Mesa they might have bought another strike force."
He considered. Other ships were occasionally seen in hyperspace, but it was usually a fluke except in a grav wave; some merchant vessel that was headed somewhere else. But detection at long range meant someone perhaps scouting for targets. "Of course we can. We could use the time for some maintenance."
She gave a relieved sigh. "Thanks, Generous."
"Just living up to our name." He signalled, the channel closed. Then he smiled. "Tawny, set up a conference call for the tin cans." He gave an evil grin. "It's going to be a good day; I get to ruin everyone else's day."
Hearts and Minds
"It does give one the almost unholy urge to start placing bets, Major..." Gunnery Sergeant Ralph Holder said as he and Marine Captain Thomas Smith watched the work team of Torches proceeding to the 'LAC yard'. The courtesy promotion was ironclad aboard an operational ship; there could be only one Captain. "I mean, look at 'em. Half of those suits I don't even recognize, and the ones that I do belong in museums. I haven't used hand thrusters since Basic..."
"Can't fault their courage, though." was 'Major' Smith's reply. "You've passed the word, I trust?"
Gunny Holder nodded. "Aye, sir." He'd made it clear that any Marine found making any sort of bet whatsoever involving the Torch work gangs could be full-on court-martialed on a charge of Blood Sporting - the sort of offense that sometimes got passengers on slave carriers spaced right alongside the slavers themselves. Personally, he doubted it would stick, even if they were betting on whether someone would die; the legal definition of the charge carried a requirement that the accused be in some way involved in instigating whatever potentially lethal situation the subject of the bet was caught up in. Not that he was going to mention that to anyone.
"Sergeant Girch came to me earlier; she wants to get the boys some suit time, do overwatch on the Torches with rescue gear. I like the idea myself - but then I thought, what if they take it that we don't think they know what they're doing? Or maybe worse, that we don't trust their gear - which I don't, but it's what they have, and you can tell they're damn proud of it. But then I thought, Dutchman watch."
'Major' Smith nodded slowly. "They don't have anyone on that detail, do they? And hand thrusters slip, and they run out of fuel - I like it, Gunny. If we deploy the pinnace to watch over them, well, it's exactly what we would do for our own; and if it happens that our boys are riding depressurized to facilitate an emergency egress, well, they don't have to know, hmm? I'll clear it with the Captain; you tell Girch to go get her people ready."
"What are those people wearing?" On the bridge, Lieutenant (jg) Esom's voice, normally calm and businesslike, was approaching the corner of incredulous and horrified. "That looks like a Fatman suit, and that, I swear, is one of the old Jennie series... God in the Void, that man's helmet looks like a diver's bell from an old vid! And I don't even know what the two behind him are..."
"Steady on, Johnny." Captain Steuben said. "They use what they have, mmm? I doubt they'd get into them if they thought there was a chance of failure."
"Captain, the Major requests permission to launch a Dutchman watch, overseeing the LAC yard." Lieutenant Kepper, manning the comm station reported.
Captain Steuben's eyes widened as he noted a detail on one of the work gang. "If that's a Fatman suit, then where's the thruster - Good God in Heaven, the entirety of that man's back is patches. Lieutenant, tell the Major his op is approved, and that it's to be ongoing as long as we're here whenever there's work crews out there." He turned to his tactical officer. "Tactical, full Dutchman protocol on those people, and get CIC to work on identifying those suits - passives only, you make sure they understand that! Last thing we want is to fry some poor bastard's management system with a radar pulse."
"Yessir."
The captain turned to Comms. "Marge, contact Nightlight control and notify them of our intentions. And get me Doc Peters; I'll take it at my chair."
"Yessir!"
"Sickbay, Peters speaking."
"Doc, I'm watching a Torch EVA work party as I speak, and if I tried to describe the condition of their suits you wouldn't believe me. You might want to prep for a serious pressure mishap - Smith's people are standing Dutchman watch for them, and quite honestly I think it's only a matter of time of before one of their suits lets go..."
A short time later, the view of the Torch work detail became more annotated than it had been. The names of each worker appeared in green - all of them single names of one or two syllables - and the suit they were wearing. Most of the suit designations were in green, but two were amber and slowly blinking to indicate uncertainty. The last three were tagged 'Unknown - Chimera' in a vehement shade of violet. Steuben found himself amused - it wasn't like these were threats...
"Skipper, CIC is reporting good type IDs on seven members of the work gang, two more they're uncertain of, and three they can't call, sir. Moffat says they get hits on individual elements of the suit, but nothing matches across the board. Looks like they may have cobbled suits together from spare parts."
Steuben winced, and he wasn't the only one. Tester, give mercy and comfort...
"Addendum from CIC, sir - at least one of those men is leaking intermittently, sir. We're getting indications of outgassing consistent with worn-out joint seals or an improperly sealed erosion - ."
The back of the patched Fatman suit simply blew out. One moment it was there - the next it was a tail as the man inside was launched out of it entirely, his scalp avulsed to the bone from the base of his head to halfway past his crown by the helmet mounting ring. Gasps and curses echoed across the bridge, and Steuben himself groaned. At least it'll be quick...
And it was - just not as anyone expected. Less than a quarter kilometer away, the side hatch on the Skyhawk class pinnace dropped away, and Sergeant Girch threw herself clear of the pinnace. One second was all she took to stabilize herself relative to her target, and she brought up the outdated 'bazooka' style launcher and fired. The shell homed on the laser pip she kept painted on the tumbling man, and detonated precisely at optimal range. He was instantly enveloped by the bod pod, which sealed itself and inflated around him. Girch reversed her trajectory, maglocked to the hull of the pinnace with a neat twist, and started reeling the bod pod in.
"Dutchman watch to Generous - umph - one bod-podded, total exposure to vacuum lasting less than thirty seconds - umph - plus obvious cranial injuries. Severe blood loss evident; victim appears unconcious; other injuries unknown. Rodgers, help me catch him! Recommend medical review of incident imagery while we get him to you; request med team meet us in the smallcraft bay. ETA - " she closed her mike for a moment as she and Private Rodgers arrested the mass of the bod pod and moved it into the pinnace - "ETA four minutes. Lowery, get us moving!"
"Twelve blessed souls, placing a hatch
Prayin' the work goes well and true
One workin' a crank, and blows out a patch
But the Generous boys, they know what to do!
"Come down from on high
Pop 'im in a bag
'leven backs left -
Mommas gonna nag... "
In Manticoran service, an incident like that would have had repercussions. The Torch workers simply offered a minute of mingled prayers and thanks, and got back to work, boring cut-holes in the sides of the LACs with hand tools. The team that was a man short got the majority of the anchoring ropes - leaving the other two teams but one rope each - and rigged accordingly before they too got back to work.
Twenty minutes later, the pinnace was back in position, and the work team was working in unison, their movements timed by one leading voice giving bizarre and casually profane work chanties, with the others breaking in as they needed to announce whatever they were going to do next. Over the next two hours the chanter demonstrated an impressive catalogue, including sex, religion, and interstellar politics, strongly featuring the Sollies. The common feature to every one was the satirical humor in them. He was in the middle of the domestic hazards of a work camp, specifically everything that could be done wrong with six-bean stew, when Murphy struck again.
It was the one with the diving-bell helmet. CIC had just announced their considered opinion that it was a home-made helmet patterned after just exactly that, when said worthy let loose a truly impressive - and impressively wet-sounding - fart. Everyone on the bridge had their moment of schadenfreude - and then he jerked straight upright, fouling the rope holding him, and began struggling with his suit, repeatedly striking his chest.
"Mah suit! Mah suit! Damned reg'lator's not workin! Oh Sweet Jesus..." The others swarmed him, but there was nothing externally visible on the suit at that location, and there was little they could do. They kept trying, battering at his suit, but the one man could be heard gasping out the Lord's prayer as the air he had became increasingly foul.
"Dutchman watch to work gang, any of you can buddy-link to him, do so, and we'll get you to Generous!" Sergeant Girch's voice sang out over the common channel.
"Watch, this is Frogface, we don't got nothin' like that, an' we'd hafta punch a hole in 'is suit t'get a line in!" the chanter replied. "Can ya bod-pod him if we give ya a clear shot? Ya got 'nother a' them?"
"Hold one... Push him free, me and Rodgers are inbound with an external." Girch replied as she and Private Rodgers stooped from the pinnace.
"Cut 'im loose! Cut 'im loose!" Frogface bellowed over the frantic pleas of the victim. "Joe, they ain't gonna let you die, but you got to let go of us! Let go!" and with a shove, the hapless Joe went free of the work gang, floating away from the LAC with no way back. "Pray with me! Lord, tho' I walk in the valley of the shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil - "
Girch and Rodgers latched onto Joe. With no wasted movements at all, Girch pulled on the back of the suit, silently praying she wasn't about to tear it away, and Rodgers stabbed into the slack with the trocar, angling to miss the occupant as best he could. The line sealed automatically, the trocar fell away inside the suit, and the external rig's telltales lit hard red at the quality of the air it was tasting.
"Joe, whatever you do, for the love of God don't move." Rodgers urgently cautioned. "That piece you feel in there is needle sharp, and can easily punch a hole in you, or in your suit, okay? You got air, just breathe and be easy, we got you, okay?" As he spoke, the rig exhaled into the suit, diluting the fouled atmosphere within with good air even as it started drawing off the bad and filtering it away. The red levels started coming down as Joe went absolutely still, murmuring thank you over and over between hyperventilating breaths.
"Generous, this is Girch; Rodgers I are returning to the pinnace with one man, suit type unknown; his environmental is down, but we have him on an external rig. I don't feel good about leaving the work crew alone for even a second; request relief be sent out?"
"Sergeant Girch, this is Generous; concur tight watch must be maintained; we are launching cutter one with relief personnel for you and Rodgers. You can bring your man - Joe is his name? - back then for refit."
"Roger that, Generous."
"Eleven strong backs, doin' th' work of twelve
One farts in his suit, and his reg'later goes bob!
He starts doin' the happy dance, chokin' on the smell
But the Generous boys, they still on the job!
Come down from on high
grab 'im and they're gone
Ten hands left -
Mommas never wrong..."
The work gang reorganized again; instead of three teams, they formed two, with the extra two men providing additional anchoring and pass-me-this, needed with the profusion of cut ropes needing to be kept taut. The work proceeded, agonizingly slow by Manticoran standards, but it proceeded nonetheless.
Manticoran Naval safety regs provided for no more than six hours of nonstop labor except in emergency. The Torch work gang went for eight, then ten, without stop or complaint. The songs became older, more religious in tone; they spoke of suffering, of oppression, but always with the faith that the light at the end of the tunnel was not an oncoming train. Steuben did not leave the bridge, even when the watch changed. Commander Brunhilde Konegawa came to stand beside him, not saying anything but wordlessly witnessing as well.
"Brun, how would you feel about giving away some naval property? We can write it off to 'Hearts and Minds', and I'll feel a damned sight better about watching those men go to work tomorrow..." Steuben asked.
Konegawa nodded. "You want to replace their suits? We can do that, sir. In fact, we can likely resupply from the SDs they have here. I don't understand why they haven't made those men new ones already."
"Then when they're done, invite them to rest here for the night. I'll talk to Smith."
In the end, the work was done; all the necessary cutting holes were placed in the three obsolete Mesan LACs. The work teams formed back up, tying together and ensuring all the tools were accounted for - and just stood there on the one LAC as Frogface inspected the hand thrusters. Embarrassment was evident in his voice when he addressed Generous.
"Ah, Generous, this here's Frogface - uhm, with the work gang? You hearin' us?"
Konegawa looked at Steuben; he shook his head. "It's your watch, Brun; go ahead." She nodded and stepped to the command chair.
"Frogface, this is Generous, Commander Konegawa speaking. How may we be of assistance?"
"Uhm, Generous, we're done for the day; we got to eat and rest. I wonder if we might beg a ride of your pinnace back to Nightlight? We've only one thruster left with anything in it; the other one, I guess it has a bad gauge, cuz it's empty. This is a long tail to manage with only one thruster, ma'am."
"Frogface, Captain Steuben asks if we might invite you all for dinner aboard? He'd like to speak to you."
"Ma'am, we ain't exactly presentable, here...?"
"We're not strangers to hard work, Frogface; we know how it is. It'd be our pleasure to host. We'll even stand you to breakfast in the morning."
" Ten hard hands at work, and now things lookin' bad
Work is goin' slow, don't even got time to piss;
And when it's finally time t'go, the thruster's lookin' sad -
Cap'n Generous up an' sez, I seen enough o' this.
"Men, I'll stand you each a meal and a bed
and another meal in the morning too
You give me those suits, you heard what I said
I'm trading old for new..."
And so it was that the next day, the work gang went out in brand new Manticoran Marine standard armored skinsuits, optimized for construction duties - each in a color scheme to suit the wearer. Later that day, a contingent from Nightlight met with a party from Generous, and proceeded to one of the quiescent SDs. There, work began on converting the sickbay and lab facilities to what would be needed.