Fateful meeting

Dollaryde almost leaped and cheered when he was called to the cargo hold. His stores had finally arrived! He grabbed a pallet jack, picked it up, and took it via the lift to his storeroom. Then he reported for duty. Time enough to start the other batches after his shift. He went through Fusion 2 noting the discrepancies, let the chief of the watch know, and then logged them, and made the instructed changes. Unlike fusion 1 nestled against the hull forward, this one needed to be treated with care. It had all the fail safes of any fusion plant in space, but merchantmen didn't usually have to worry about a fusion plant they couldn't jettison.

"And this is fusion two's control room." He heard ensign Reese say. "And if you have tried the beer in the pub, you might want to meet this man. Rating Dollaryde?" He turned to the ensign and the young man with him. "Engineering 2nd Francis Dollaryde, this is our new middie, Mr. Krueger."

"Sir." Dollaryde snapped to attention.

"Dollaryde will walk you through the plant. Come and find me after he had done so." Reese walked back out of the compartment.

Dollaryde started to turn back to his work, but a soft voice stopped him. "A moment, Mr. Dollaryde." He turned back. "Yes sir?"

The midshipman walked over, then around him. "So you are our famous brewmeister."

"I wouldn't say famous, sir."

"But you are a credit to your craft, rating. I have heard nothing but praise of your beer. And of your choice in women."

"Well, the twins are special people, sir."

"No doubt. Which begs the question." Krueger stopped in front of him. "What makes you special enough for them to marry you?"

"Just lucky, I guess, sir."

"Very lucky." Krueger agreed. "But so far, except for those two things, you have failed to impress me."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Don't worry, Herr Dollaryde, by the time this cruise is over, you will impress me or suffer. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes sir." Dollaryde wasn't sure where this was going, and felt he might not like the answer.

"So from this point until you do impress me, I am going to give you a nickname. I am going to call you my little Schwulie." He gave the rating a grin. "Now, show me how this plant operates."

Hit the Deck Running

Midshipwoman Kramer walked into prifly, and knocked on the wooden door of the Squadron commander's office. It was a tradition in the navy that every senior Marine officer had no sentry and a wooden door rather than a metal hatch. After all, unless you carried a club to beat on it, they might never hear you knock. It was a tradition the COLAC or senior flight officers had adopted. She knocked softly. No reply. She hit the door harder.

"Come." She opened the door, and walked into the compartment. The squadron commander's compartment was small; there was room for the desk and two chairs and nothing else. Huggins looked up from her terminal, and silently pointed at the closer chair. Stacey walked over, and sat as Huggins went back to her work.

"I've just been reading your file, middie." Huggins said, shutting the terminal down to face the girl. "Number 72 in your flight standing at Saganami Island, number two of our snotties. And the captain asked me to read your thesis. Interesting ideas. Maybe you would be a good LAC commander in time. We just have to find out sooner than you might have expected." She looked at Kramer as if expecting a reply, though the statement sounded rhetorical.

Huggins watched her for several seconds, then stood. "Come with me." Kramer followed as they went through Prifly, past the briefing room, and into the long passageway that ran between the docking bays to either side. The first four were for the Shrikes, with the names chosen by their commanders above the hatches that led into them; HMLAC Panther, HMLAC Sabretooth, HMSLAC Legate, and RSNLAC Fubuki. Next were the Ferrets; HMLAC Wolverine,

HMLAC Weasel, RSNLAC Otter, and finally, one marked merely RSNLAC #4. Beyond were the Katanas, HMLAC Gabriel, HMLAC Michael, HMLAC Azrael and RSNLAC Succubus.

"This will be your bird until further notice." Huggins motioned to the unnamed hatch.

"Why doesn't mine have a name, ma'am?"

"The LAC commander names his bird. You can choose a call sign, but until she is officially yours, you don't get to paint her name on the ship." She motioned Kramer down to another hatch, opening it to walk into the bay itself. Ahead of her, the sleek bulbous nose of a Katana rose before them. On that nose was what looked like an ash blond woman with devil's horns in a bikini with ginormous breasts, kneeling in a pool of blood. One bloodstained hand rested on her thigh, the other was at her mouth, fingers coated with blood being licked by her tongue as she looked forward coquettishly. Beneath it was the phrase; "You look good enough to eat'.

"If you're good enough to maintain commander of Ferret four, you'll get something like that done for you by our resident artist, Yeoman Pankowski. Until then all you have is F4." Huggins led her back out, and to that hatch. As she had been told, there was merely a letter and number in the place of the artwork. Huggins kept walking.

"You should have been sent to the Harmon LAC officer's training base first, but we'll have to make do." She looked at the girl. "The base was started in 1913 post Diaspora and built on Jersey Point on Saganami Island. Named for Jacquelyn Harmon who was LAC Squadron commander of the twelve Apostles as they were called, attached to HMAMC Wayfarer, then Group Commander of CLAC HMS Minotaur's strike group the very first CLAC. She created the syllabus for training for that Group, and while she died at Second Hancock in their very first action, her work proved her mettle.

"As yours will be proven here."

It was less than fifty meters from the entry hatch to the control room of the bird. "Every station matches those you will see on the bridge of the Witch, but smaller." She pointed at the other four stations on the bridge. "Helm, Weapons, Electronic Counter Measures, communications. The other five station are forward and aft of here; Impeller one we passed, impeller two is the farthest aft, with Engineering forward of that with two stations, and stealth/ counter missile, just aft of us. When operating in combat, all are manned, though on patrol only four, Impeller one, stealth/ counter missile the helm, and engineering are.

"If we were part of a Wing assigned to a standard CLAC, there might be two officers assigned; captain and exec, usually the chief engineer, though sometime the tactical officer. CLACs have a lower priority than the fleet, and our priority is even lower, we usually have one officer per bird, and that is usually an ensign or JG." She looked at the younger woman. "LACs are officer intensive, as you can see. An ensign on this ship," she waved to encompass the ship they were being carried by, "is a junior flunky, not a command officer, and in charge of maybe thirty people, not in charge and command of ten total. With me so far?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Any questions?"

Kramer considered the question. "Too many to ask easily, ma'am."

Huggins smiled gently. "You'll do. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, ma'am."

Huggins walked to the command chair, thumbing the com button. "Crew of Ferret 4, man your ship for drills." She lifted her hand. "Now impress me."

Laws Of the Land

Cathcart stormed into his office, almost throwing the chip folder on his desk. The nerve of her, denying God's Will! He had known over 97 percent of the fleet had different religious rules, and he had dealt with it as a junior officer by coming down on his subordinates for the things they did that violated it, and merely putting up with his seniors. He had thought that being a division commander aboard his own ship would allow him more control, but it seemed it was not to be.

He threw himself into his chair, glaring at the offending chip folder, then slipped the chip out into a pad, and brought it up. ADDENDA TO FLEET REGULATIONS FOR MERCHANT CRUISERS. He flipped through it, his ire growing. Crewmen allowed civilian clothes (Section 4, 'Ship Leave'). Gambling was allowed, but limited by time since those in a game might have to go on watch, or get some sleep. Violations of the eased rules were simply that the game was shut down, and perhaps the players receiving a reprimand or non-judicial punishment!

Worst yet, brewing and distilling at the captain's discretion assuming the ones producing the beverages passed medical checks on the product and were not being reprimanded for their usual work. An actual pub being opened, and while in the pub there was no rank, meaning a rating could consort with an officer with impunity!

In all fifteen regulations had been altered and in the case of the bootlegging thrown out the airlock. He slammed down the pad, and set his chin on his fists. He'd find a way to stop this man from violating god's will. Somehow.

A Promised Story

Rebecca finished the last document, nibbling on the fruit and vegetable plate Os had delivered. Irene had stolen an apricot half, and was licking it in delight as she watched. "You do know you're a carnivore, you little monster." The cat didn't reply, just bit into the pulp and ripped off a mouthful as she purred. "All right, I give up."

"You have an appointment, ma'am." Oscelli came in, whisking away the devastated plate, setting down a paper copy of a book. Rebecca sighed, hefting it.

She left her cabin, walking down the passageway to Jinhua's compartment. She touched the annunciator, and Jinhua answered, curious. "I promised Fenghua a story." She said, waving the book.

"Ah." For some reason, it caused Jinhua to smile."By all means, captain." She motioned toward the sleeping compartment.

Rebecca walked to the hatch, tapping it before entering. The girl sat in her bed, pillow firmly clutched between her arms. Rebecca considered the idea that maybe she should order a teddy bear to be delivered, shelving it in the same instant. "I promised to read to you."

"I wondered when you might." The girl sniffed as if holding back tears.

She walked in, sitting in the chair beside the bed. The book smelled of printer's ink, and she inhaled appreciatively as she opened it. "It's the Wizard of Oz, first of fourteen volumes. By the end of the cruise, I hope you will have had all of them read to you."

"Would that it were so." The girl whispered.

Rebecca's heart almost burst at the pain suggested by that comment. She opened it to the first page. She took a deep breath, then began. "Chapter I, The Cyclone.

"Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar— except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole."

The girl settled back as a child listening to a story will; turning on her side to watch the reader intently. Rebecca smiled inwardly as she went on, describing the gray world that would miraculously gain color when she was transported to Oz.

She remembered the first time she had heard this story, her mother still in uniform before returning to Silesia, sitting looking at the four year old girl before her as she read those same words. Her older brother, all of ten complaining because he was 'too old for this crap' still leaning against the foot of the bed as that soft voice drew a picture of wonder in their young minds.

It was the last good memory she had of her mother. She had left the next day, promising to introduce her daughter to Alice in Wonderland when she returned. Nine months later, the Manticore Cross was delivered instead. While in action in Schiller, Helena Duvalier had acted without thought of her own life, dashing in to eject a failing fusion bottle before it destroyed HMS Adamantine. Her actions saved the half the the crew still alive, though she had died in the act. The light cruiser had beaten her Silesian heavy cruiser foe, but had been scuttled rather than attempting repairs three weeks later.

She checked the young face before her. After a few pages Fenghua's eyes began that slow occasional blink of a young mind trying to stay awake to reach the last page; an attempt that always failed.

On her own first tour in Silesia, she had brought the book Alice in Wonderland. When her own ship had passed through Schiller, she had read it aloud and was found a few hours later by her fellow snottie Cathy Munroe her voice trembling as sher read, tears running down her face. That night as she cried herself to sleep, she had felt the touch of a ghostly hand, and a voice apologizing for not reading it to her instead.

She wondered if she would ever marry, if one day it would be her sitting, reading to a child of her own, returning the favor and creating anew that wonder. But considering that the people who had read to her, mother, Tommy, and father, all now dead...

"While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her. She thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked." Rebecca looked up.

Fenghua was asleep, her face angelic. Rebecca placed the bookmark back at the start of the chapter, setting it on the nightstand. Then shut off the lights as she left the compartment. Jinhua looked up from the file on her lap. "Brandy, Captain?"

"Please." Jinhua picked up the decanter and snifter, pouring, then handed the glass to the captain, motioning to the comfortable chair across from her. Rebecca warmed the snifter between her hands, sniffing the aroma of the beverage. "My question is why you haven't read to your daughter in a long time."

Jinhua chuckled. "When my daughter finds someone willing to read to her, she gets... creative with the truth." She sipped. "The last time I read to her before our last cruise was the day before my ship left for Gregor. Once we returned to Manticore I have read to her at least every other day until we came aboard. By my estimate, she has seven of your officers and Mr. Oscelli on her list to read to her between here and Torch, where she will remain during our mission." She chuckled again. "No doubt by the time we return to Manticore, she will add Queen Berry to that list if she has the chance; She's already has my own Bureau Chief on the list of those who have read to her before."

"Why that little... sneak." Rebecca shook her head. Then she raised the snifter. "Definitely your daughter."

"Isn't she just?" Jinhua raised her own.

Once more Into the Breach

"I died." again Stacey said.

Her helmsman Chief Nancy Cartier glanced over her shoulder. "We died." She corrected.

"Sorry, chief, you're right. But what did I do wrong this time?"

"Not checking your clearance." Huggins replied from the folding jumpseat beside the tactical station. "You don't have to be a helmsman like the chief, but you do have to pay attention to your wedge. Main screen." The tactical officer, 2nd class Gallo touched the key, showing Witch Maiden from the side as the Ferret backed from her docking bay. Above and below were the intense warping of space of her impeller wedge. The Ferret climbed as instructed, then suddenly died.

"An LAC has a wedge twice that of a pinnace. Ten kilometers compared to only five. But Witch Maiden's wedge is as large as a superdreadnought, 300 kilometers. You ordered a course that made your wedge hit her wedge, and died." Huggins looked at her mildly. "Most of those sent to Harmon Base have between six and eighteen months as a Pinnace pilot, and training for that includes launching while your mother ship is under impeller. That's something they didn't teach you beyond sims at Saganami Island. You tried to climb over her while under impeller, and your wedge is a lot weaker than hers. When they impinged, your nodes blew, killing your LAC. In fact Witch Maiden might not have even noticed it."

"But the helm should know better!"

Huggins nodded. "But LACs operate in the fringe between a pinnace and a full up starship, using speed and maneuverability to survive. To do so, the helm must be willing to obey orders that sometimes seem insane. If you had set that course and cut the wedge, Witch Maiden would have passed three kilometers away, and both would have been safe.

"You're also hobbling your crew. You're giving orders that don't need to be said, and not giving orders that must be. I know you're supposed to be this larger than life perfect person as the officer in command. But they," she motioned toward the quiet crewmen watching their stations, "know you put your pants on one leg at a time. They know you will make mistakes, just as they do. That's why until you can get out of the docking bay and into action, they'll do just what you tell them to do."

Stacey wanted to just say to hell with it. But the comments burned. How can you give too many orders and not enough at the same time?

"Want to take a break? You're supposed to do a shift at Tactical in two hours."

"I want to get out of the goddamned bay before I quit." Stacey gritted out. "If that's all right."

Huggins looked at her for a long moment. "Once more then. Chief, reset to zero." The screen changed to the docking bay. "Your bird."

In civilian hands, the computer system of the modern LACs would have been one hell of a video game. It would jostle the crew when missiles were fired, create the hum of a wedge coming up, the whine as the ship accelerated, the thump of counter missiles being fired, and every tone of any system that was used in operation. Creating a perfect imitation of reality, all without the ship even moving.

Stacey closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Helm, take us out full thrusters. Maintain thrusters until we're out of the wedge."

"Full thrusters aye." The docking bay receded as five Gs hit them. The grav plates would limit the 'felt' Gs to one in ten, so they were pushing away from the ship at fifty Gs, half a kilometer per second. She could see the hull, and above and below, the stressed space of Witch Maiden's wedge.

"Rotate to heading 180 relative to the Witch."

"180 relative aye." The forward view now slid down the side of the ship, then toward the stern. On her monitor, she could see they were now facing aft of the Witch.

"Take us out the kilt, chief. Maintain separation from her wedge."

The chief pushed the throttle forward, and again five Gs hit them as the LAC continued drifting away from the ship at the five kilometers per second they had attained from the initial thrust and the new vector shoved her toward the stern. Then they were out of the wedge in open space.

She waited ten seconds, then said. "Bring up the wedge,"

"Wedge active, now." The LAC was still there, running at the same speed Four of the times she had tried that they'd died.

"Activate stealth, then increase to 500Gs, port helm to 090, level plane."

"Stealth activated."

"Wedge nominal, coming to 090 aye." With the wedge up, they didn't feel anything as it snapped around onto the new course.

"Very good. Think you can put her away?"

Stacey nodded at the question. The screen changed. The LAC was running alongside. "Witch maintaining 2KPS acceleration." Helm reported

"Take us in at ten KPS level plane. Drop the wedge outside her perimeter."

"Aye aye." The LAC closed. As they reached 310 kilometers from the ship, their own wedge dropped and they slid forward between the bands. Ahead of them the docking bay stood open and inviting.

"Range?"

"twenty kilometers."

"Full aft." The thrusters slammed them back in their seats as the ship decelerated.

"Ten kilometers, eight, seven, speed now 2.5 KPS. Docking tractor coming up."

"Cut all thrust."

"Cut now." The gravs they had felt died, and the LAC slid into her docking bay like a skater on ice. There was a thunk forward, then all motion died.

"Very good." Huggins made a note. "Chief, when she comes back to continue, use full automatic systems."

"Wait!" She turned back to the girl who was looking at her in shock. "We've been running these simulations with the automatics disconnected?" Huggins nodded. "You mean I killed us eleven times-"

"Fifteen." Chief Cartier broke in.

"Thank you chief, fifteen times because I wasn't using the computer assist?"

"Yes."

"Why?" The question was almost a scream.

"What do you do if the main computer is fried in combat and you have to get the bird home? You use your experience and your gut and take her home. Maybe it's bad enough that you can't land, so you abandon close enough for a rescue cutter to pick you up. But if it's not that bad, you just do it by hand. Maybe your wrong. You hit the mothership's wedge and get fried. It happens. That's why damaged birds go last.

"So we do the sims with the automatics limited until you can get in and out without dying." Huggins smiled at the outrage that the girl was still projecting. "We all went through it at Harmon Base. I'm just cramming a four month training system into a week. You graduated from the third week in just under two days. The last commander to graduate from that section usually buys her crew a beer."

"If we had any." Stacey grumped. Morale had plummeted when Dollaryde's beer ran out.

"The skipper took care of that."

The crew unbuckled their restraints and went down the ramp and back into the ship.

"Thought of a call sign to use until the decision is made?" Huggins asked.

"I was thinking of Shrew."

"Shrew? Like Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew?"

"No. There's an animal family on Old Earth that are the smallest known mammals anywhere. The largest is only about ten grams and 4 centimeters long from nose to tail, and the smallest is less than three centimeters, and weighs less than two grams. They need to eat at least their weight a day merely to survive, and some of them can inject venom that will kill mice between five and fifteen times their size. I mentioned the mouse because single shrews are known to attack and kill them. People think of Earth sharks or wolverines as vicious, but gram for gram there is no solitary predator more aggressive and tenacious in the universe than a hungry shrew."

After dropping off the pad in her office, Huggins led the crew of F4 to the pub just forward of Prifly. It was the mess deck for the flight crews, though after lunch it converted to a pub with anyone allowed access. At the door a sign was hung that was taken down when the pub was closed. WITCH'S BREW IS OPEN with a smaller sign; NO RANKS IN THE PUB.

There weren't that many in at the moment, people coming off the forenoon watch who would go back on at Mid-watch getting a small drink to settle their lunches. Dollaryde was at the upright piano playing something idly with the girls scrunched onto the bench to sit on either side of him.

"A round for my crew, chief-" Stacey flinched as a number of people protested.

"No ranks in the pub!" "Shocking!" "Hang her up by her thumbs!"

Siskp leaned forward. "Even I don't have a rank here." He admonished. "The first time it happens, you'll get that." He waved at the people who had already turned back to their drinks. "But I keep score, and if it happens again, you buy a round for the house. That's the rules." He buffed the glass he held.

"Then what do I call you?" Stacey asked plaintively.

"You can call me barkeep, or you can use my nickname. Boozer."

"Boozer?"

"I am one of the only teetotalers aboard. Had a problem with it when I was your age, and found out one drink was too many. Who else do you put in charge of a bar? What'll it be?"

"I wish Dollaryde's beer was still in stock."

"We have another week at least. But the skipper found out what the problem was, and took care of that. Then she sent her steward back to Sphinx, and on to Gryphon in a yacht rental. Just this morning he got back aboard her own yacht with about twenty kegs. So we have Listenberger Lager, Reichenbach Dark and Sligo Bitter from Manticore, Crown's Own both dark and light from Gryphon, Old Tillman ale and Jacoby's Pilsner from Sphinx, and for imports we have Lanzhou Dark from Jasper in Manticoran Silesia, and Kelsenbrau from Dresden in the Quadrant. Nothing stronger served before 1700."

"Then let them have what they want." She waved at her people. "That goes for you too..." She looked at Huggins. "What do I call you in here?"

Sisko laughed. "Most of us call her LD."

"Damn it Boozer!"

"What's that stand for?" Stacey asked.

"Never mind." Huggins snapped. "Give me a Kelsenbrau." The others ordered, Stacey getting an Old Tillman as the others headed for some tables.

She picked up her beer, and Sisko tapped her arm. "It stands for Lady Death, what the Media was calling her after First Manticore. But if you say that out loud, she'll probably kill me."

"Thanks...Boozer. Send a round to Dallaryde and the twins. Tell him I asked for a song." She grinned as she joined the others at the tables. A few moments later, Dollaryde played a riff, then began to sing in a light baritone.

"Roland was a warrior

From the Land of the Midnight Sun

With a Thompson Gun for hire

Fighting to be done

The deal was made in Denmark

On a dark and stormy day

So he set out for Biafra

To join the bloody fray."

"I've never heard that before." Huggins commented.

"We love ancient music from Old Earth's Christian Era." Stacey commented. She was waiting for the lines coming up, watching her Squadron Commander intently, as were her entire crew.

"-But of all the Thompson Gunners

Roland was the best

So the CIA decided

They wanted Roland dead

That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen

Blew off Roland's Head

Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner

Time Time Time for another week of war

Norway's bravest son

Time stands still for Roland til he evens up the score

They can still see his headless body

Stalking through the night

In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson Gun

In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson Gun."

"Wait, he's dead but still fighting?" Huggins gasped. Stacey nodded, moving her beer to aim at Dollaryde.

"Roland searched the continent

For the man who'd done him in

He found him in Mombasa

In a bar room drinkin' Gin

Roland aimed his Thompson Gun

He didn't say a word

But he blew Van Owen's body

From there to Johannesburg."

"What maniac came up with that song!"

"A man named Warren Zevon. The Balladeer of the Mercenary back in the 20th century CE." Stacey grinned. "Back home we love old Martial music from that Era."

"Yeah." Cartier said with a wide grin. Every marching song from the 17th to 20th century CE, and even some that never happened."

Huggins shook her head in astonishment as she looked at the faces grinning at her. "What kind of people settled Sidemore?"

"Dreamers, LD." Stacey grinned wider at Huggins' flinch. "Dreamers who wanted something that was long gone, or never was."

Pursuit of the Dream

It is a well known fact that a lot of the worlds settled by mankind in the first four or five centuries after the Diaspora began were settled by the disgruntled. People who felt outside of modern society for whenever they happened to live. Planets like Grayson were settled by religious extremists, the Mfecane worlds and Voortrekker by racial extremists, Das Reich and Rodina by political extremists. All yearning for their view of a perfect society.

In most cases, those who stayed behind let them go with relief. After all, there are enough amateur lunatics in any society for anyone to want to try to bottle up professional ones.

But Sidemore had been settled by a different breed of Treecat. It was the only planet known to have been settled from everywhere on Old Earth, and had only one thing in common:

They were all members of an organization called the Society For Creative Anachronisms.

The Organization itself started in 1966 CE with a small group that began recreating the Era called the Middle Ages on Earth, from 1100 CE to 1500. In that it was nothing really new; there had been groups in the Old United States that had reenacted battles from their own Revolution and the War Between the States for decades, just as there had been groups in the European States that reenacted battles from the Scottish Wars, and on to the Napoleonic era. Even Oriental ones that reenacted such events as the raid of trhe 47 Ronin fron the 19th century CE. But after the Bicentennial reenactment of the Battle Of Gettysburg, it was announced that all such reenactors were going to join together just as the SCA.

The event was a three day spectacular with almost 200,000 participants in full garb and equipment, and viewed system wide by almost 12 billion people.

In the late 16th century PD when the organization had several million members, one old reenactor died, and left his estate to the SCA to fund colonization of a world for people willing in his own words, to 'put up or shut up'. If he hadn't been a multibillionaire, Samuel Cline's bequest would have been ignored. But his lawyer had checked the registry of newly discovered worlds, and one planet on the outskirts of the Silesian confederacy had just been listed with the Bureau of Immigration.

People always asked those from Sidemore why the planet had that name instead of Marsh, like the system. The fact of the matter was that the Captain of the 2.5 megaton Manticoran merchant vessel HMMS Bonaventure that had stopped there to do repairs on her hyperdrive was Charles Patrick Marsh, and his wife's maiden name was Marian Sidemore. As the discoverer, he named both system and planet and did a basic survey before they departed for home.

Resource wise, the system was incredibly poor; only one small asteroid belt, no major sources for anything beyond iron, but a beautiful world that could support maybe two billion on agriculture alone with no major predators beyond some solitary hunters in the deep woods; and there was a lot of deep woods along with two major oceans three land masses large enough to be called continents, and thousands of islands. Something like what old Earth had been like before humans evolved and got organized.

The SCA put in the bid early, and most of the Transtellars that might have tried to outbid them merely dropped out when the Manticoran Survey Organization reported the lack of material wealth. So in 1675 PD the aptly named Anachronism set out with the first of the 200,000 new settlers. The culling process had been fierce; the settlers had limited everything but medical treatment, communications, and the infrastructure necessary to build and maintain an orbital station to what had been available in the late 19th century CE. Small 'life-flight' helicopters running on hydrogen and convertible to biodiesel were added as medical support along with ten of the original aircraft. Two dozen LACs had also been bought second hand as the foundation of their customs patrol.

Politically they had been diverse, but those original settlers had a simple way to deal with problems of that type. When the first arguments happened in Cline's Landing, those who disagreed merely packed their gear in replicas of the old Conestoga wagon or Red River cart, and moved further away. After all, when the only regular transport was the horses they had brought with them, traveling as little as fifty kilometers was enough to be away from the brouhaha.

Contact with the rest of the galaxy was, due to their location and scarcity of trade goods, sporadic. Ships came by about twice a year though no one would have been surprised if only one came in. They sold fresh and 'canned' foods, some homemade wines beers and 'moonshine', skins and pelts of local animals, along with some hand carvings pottery and textiles. In return their medical database was updated when possible, and some equipment to repair the machinery they did have was bought. When the Silesian Confederacy began it's slide into anarchy they were blissfully unaware until a few pirates hit the system.

Then Andre Warnecke chose it for his new base. He sent in a captured merchant ship to scout it out, then came in with the five ships of his original squadron to crush the LACs defending it, blowing the orbital station at the same time. Every shuttle on the surface including the fuel lighter that had kept the LACs operational were blown away with kinetic energy strikes along with the towns they were in. Only after slaughtering almost 60,000 people had he demanded the planet's surrender.

Armed only with weapons that a citizen of the American Old West would have recognized, against modern pulsers, combat armor even simple ballistic armor, it was no contest. The worst was that with only a bit more than two million people on the planet, their time honored 'move away' strategy didn't work. Not against orbital surveillance, armed assault landers and KEWs. If Warnecke wanted you to move, you moved. If he didn't want you to move, you stayed where the hell you were. Or you were annihilated by people you never even saw before you died.

That, was how it was when a warship named HMAMC Wayfarer came in and blew the house of cards apart 12 years earlier, saving the survivors.

"That's why our uniforms are this color. One of the largest groups of our original settlers were the ones who reenacted the War between the States, and the Confederate Army wore the same color, so the ground forces wear Union Blue. In fact our mess dress uniforms even today are replicas of those armies down to the insignia." Cartier finished.

"And I thought Graysons were stubborn." Huggins commented.

"Nah." Drive rating 1st class Shanaseth Reed grinned. "Compared to us, they're dilettantes."