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Claws That Catch: Section One
Last updated: Wednesday, May 14, 2008 23:18 EDT
“So…what’s with the different uniform?” Josh asked. “The Marines got a special one for making the worst mistake of your life?”
Second Lieutenant Eric Bergstresser retied the tie, which the Marines for some reason called a ‘field scarf’ and looked in the mirror over his shoulder at his brother.
“I’m an officer, now, you moron. Officers don’t wear enlisted uniforms.”
“Shiny,” Josh said, tugging at the unaccustomed tuxedo jacket. “But you get to, like, rent them, right? Because, don’t get me wrong, they look expensive.”
Eric had once upon a time been promoted directly from Private First Class to Sergeant. Winning the Navy Cross might have had something to do with it. Assuming that his next promotion, to Staff Sergeant, would be a long time coming, he’d invested in a set of the Marine Dress Uniform, just about the prettiest uniform the US military services had to offer. And assuredly the most expensive that were made for junior enlisted.
He’d subsequently been promoted to Staff Sergeant rather quicker than he’d expected and then more or less ordered, by the President no less, to attend Officer’s Candidate School. So the Enlisted Dress Uniform now resided in his closet until he could figure out what to do with it and he was fiddling with the ‘field scarf’ of his new officer’s dress blues while trying to ignore the fact that he was about to get married.
“No, you don’t rent them,” Eric replied. “And, yes, they’re expensive. But with the visitors that we’ve got, I couldn’t just turn up in greens.”
Eric winced when he reminded himself of the guest list. Brooke’s dad, thank God, was prior service. So when a few people made it known that they’d like to attend, and he’d seen who they were, he’d made it plain to Brooke’s mom that, no, they could not be turned away.
Eric had been up to his hips in alligators when the additional guests were invited and hadn’t found out for a couple of weeks. In a way he was glad. And even more glad that his Tactical Officer hadn’t found out.
OCS had been a pain in the ass. It wasn’t the chickenshit that had gotten him. He understood that. Marines were expected to maintain a high state of readiness at all times. Inspections were a part of daily life. Attention to detail was important in combat and to an extent even more so in space. Whether the Marine Officer Candidates knew it or not, and while it was still Top Secret the rumors were starting to go around, the Navy, and thus the Marine Corps, was about to transition from a ‘wet’ service to a ‘space’ service. Learning to fold your socks perfectly, first time, every time, was a way to develop the habit of doing the job right, first time, every time. Whether your socks were folded, in the end, really didn’t matter. Whether you’d sealed your space suit did.
So Eric could handle the chickenshit and had. He’d been neat as a kid; Marine Corps boot camp had just put polish on. He knew the drills which was why he rapidly made platoon guide. He could fire his weapon already, so he acted as a mentor to some of the candidates that, alas, could not hit the broad side of a Dreen dreadnought. He didn’t even find the coursework hard. Most of the candidates were college graduates whereas he only had a high school education. But sometimes it seemed like college had made them stupider or something. And the new stuff, on particles and planetary environments, well that was meat and drink to the job he’d been doing for two years.
What had been a pain in the ass was the instructors. He’d entered OCS with the absolute personal commitment to stand out as little as possible, glide through as easily as he could, get his bar and get back to work. The OCS instructors, however, had of course read his file. And while it didn’t say where he got the Navy Cross, they didn’t hand them out in boxes of Cracker Jacks. And it did note that he had two years in Force Recon.
The instructors did have a certain gate-keeper duty. Their job was to ensure that everyone passing through their course graduated as the finest example of Marine Officer possible. So whether it was that sense of duty, a dislike of ‘mustangs’, officers who had come up from the enlisted ranks, or just bloody-mindedness, the instructors seemed to pick him out from day one as one of the candidates they were going to make quit.
So it had been a pain. Not as much of a pain as Force Recon qual or Operator Combat Training, but a pain nonetheless. And in his opinion, an unnecessary one. He’d proven from day one that he was as good as any of the other candidates, better really. But nothing he did seemed to be good enough.
On the other hand, maybe it was time to quit mentally bitching. He’d been Distinguished Honor Grad so maybe the riding had a purpose.
But to suddenly get a message from home, right after the Crucible, that several guests had been added to what he’d hoped was going to be a very small and unnoticed wedding…
“Okay, try to explain this to me in terms I can understand,” Josh said. “Who are these guys?”
Eric winced internally, again, and shrugged, again.
“Who’s the biggest bigshot you can think of short of the President or Marilyn Manson?”
“I dunno,” Josh said.
“That’s who these people are,” Eric replied. “One of the lower ranking ones is one of the very few guys alive to have gotten the Medal of Honor. Then there’s the rest…”
“Okay, that one I get,” Josh said, his eyes widening. “So why’s he coming to your wedding?”
“Because God hates me,” Eric replied.
God hates me, Captain William Weaver thought. I should go back to being an Astrogator. Hell, I should go back to being a scientist.
Once upon a time, that is exactly what Dr. William Weaver, PhD had been. With doctorates in everything from engineering to astronomy, he’d been one of the corps of specialists, often referred to as Beltway Bandits, that solved problems for the military and other branches of the US government, generally having acronyms that had an A on the end. NSA, CIA, DIA…
Which was why he’d been shanghaied one Saturday afternoon to explain physics to the National Security Council when an experiment in same had gone wrong.
Subsequent to the explosion in Orlando that had created the Chen Anomaly, he’d been blown up, shot, travelled to other planets, gotten stuck between universes and ended up saving the world. The Chen Anomaly, a black sphere that sat precisely where the University of Central Florida High-Energy Physics lab used to reside, had spawned a host of magical particles. The particles, at first referred to, incorrectly, as Higgs Bosons, had the ability to link two particles and create a gate, one that looked very much like a mirror, between any two points. Some TV reporter had called them Looking Glasses and the name stuck. Since there were inactive bosons, apparently left over from some predecessor race, on other planets, the vast horde of particles spun out by the Chen Anomaly had created multiple gates to other worlds.
Some of those worlds were inhabited. Notably, some of them were inhabited by a species humans called the Dreen. The Dreen used biological forms for most of the processes humans used machines for and were apparently ravenously consuming earth’s corner of the galaxy. They’d linked to some of Earth’s bosons and were intent on conquering the planet.
One of the bosons, however, had linked to a more friendly race called the Adar. About a hundred years ahead of humans in most sciences, the Adar had a weapon that could close the gates. The only problem being, it had to be shoved through one and if it went off on the wrong side it was going to destroy the sending planet. Though they had had a run-in with the Dreen as well, they’d chosen to go for stopgap measures rather than risk losing their planet.
Humans, with multiple attacks coming through and the Dreen seemingly unstoppable, had taken the chance. Weaver, with the help of a SEAL team and nearly a division of troops, had managed to get the device through the Looking Glass and saved the world.
The Adar also had a strange little device they’d picked up on one of the previously inhabited planets. The most they’d gotten it to do was explode on a very large scale. Weaver had figured out that rather than the suicide box it appeared to be, it was probably a drive system of some sort. After seven years, the humans and Adar had managed to create a warp ship with the little black box at the heart of it.
Along the way, Weaver quit being a Beltway Bandit and joined the side of light, taking a direct commission and, after lots of schools and several normal cruises, became the Astrogator of that warp ship. Just before its first mission the Adar, who while technically and even philosophically advanced over humans still didn’t quite get marketing, had named it the Alliance Space Ship Vorpal Blade.
Weaver had spent two tours as the Vorpal Blade’s Astrogator and while both had been hair-raising and life threatening, he’d enjoyed the challenge. And, of course, he got to run around in space and see and do some really neat stuff.
But after the second cruise, when they'd finally located the Dreen, found another even more advanced race that was fleeing from them and generally gotten the chither shot out of them by a Dreen task force, he'd been offered a promotion to Executive Officer of the Vorpal BladeII. The latter had been entirely built by the new race, the Hexosehr, and was superior in every way to the original. So how bad could it be? Especially since the Navy threw in a wholly unlooked for promotion to Captain. Hell, he could be looking at commanding the Vorpal Blade if he did a good enough jobin the XO's slot.
But at the moment, that didn't look likely. If he couldn't get a few hundred rolls of...
"We're leaving in a week," Weaver said, as patiently as he could, to the woman on the other side of the counter. "If we don't have the sesupplies, experience tells me that our mission is going to go from possible to difficult if not impossible."
"Well, you're not getting them," the distribution clerk said, clicking her tongue. "For one thing, you're over budget on this class of item. For another, you're asking for our entire stock. I need to ensure that there's some for others, you know."
If she clicked her tongue one more time, Weaver was going to go all postal on her fat ass. She used that annoying tongue click as a grammatical mark. At the end of each sentence, ‘click', each comma point,‘click.' He'd been dealing with her for the last two months and he was going to strangle her if she didn't stop...
"This material is very expensiveyou know (click). And the last two times that your boat went out (click) you used up nearly your entire stock (click). You need to learn some supply discipline Captain (click).
Weaver tried to stop, but he was beginning to flinch in anticipation of her finishing asentence. He felt like a hound dog that had been beat too much, no good for sniffin nor treein.
"And that is your final answer?" Bill asked, flinching at the fact that he'd actually asked for a reply. He'd encouraged her to...
"That is my final answer (click!) Unless you get a budget variance and authorization to entirely deplete the stock (click) the amount you've already drawn is the maximum you will be allowed (Click!)"
Bill felt beaten. It wasn't that he couldn't find a way to get the variances and even the authorizations. The missions of the Blade were almost always of such high priority that variances were more or less automatic. But even if he got them, he'd have to deal with the click. That bloody, revolting, monstrous, infernal click! The horrid, wretched, ghastly, hideous, disgusting, VILE CLICK! THAT BLASPHEMOUS MONSTROSITY THAT ROSE FROM THE NETHER DEPTHS OF...
"Thank you very much," Bill said, nodding to her politely."Have a nice day."
"I will (click)."
"You don't look so good, XO," Captain Prael said.
Captain Charles Prael was a submariner, and a good one. The previous skipper of the Vorpal Blade had been an aviator, a compromise reached among the admirals when it became obvious the navy was going to space. While the Blade I was built around a submarine, the former USS Nebraska, SSBN 739, there were aspects of both underwater and aerial to its actions. At least, that was the argument the carrier admirals had used. The argument had carried weight for several reasons, among which were that the carrier admirals were all former fighter jocks whereas the sub admirals were bubblehead geeks. In a way, it was right back to high school.
But Spectre had turned out to be a great CO for the mission. Each of the branches had their own priorities, cultural issues that seemed built right into the steel of their ships. And whereas with submariners, the boat always came first, fighter jocks were always willing to go to the mat. It was vastly unlikely that any submariner would have kept fighting the Blade after the pounding she took at HD 37355. Their tendency would have been to back off and get fixed. Submariner tradition, due to the conditions under which they fought and especially since the days of Richover, was that the boat came first.
Spectre, though, was from the fighter tradition. No carrier ever shut down flight ops because they lost a bird. Hell, they wouldn’t shut down unless they took so much damage they couldn’t get planes on and off the deck.
On the other hand, at one point in the first mission, when they weren’t all that far from Earth and had taken some damage, he was ready to turn around. That was what carriers did if they got dinged. They headed into port to get the dings hammered out. They’d finish the mission, if at all possible, but they’d head for home just as soon as it was done.
Submariners, though, just kept going until they had to return to port. They’d keep the boat running with spit and duct tape if that was what was necessary.
Spectre, in many ways, had set the tone of the culture of the Space Navy, a combination of submariner and carrier. The mission came first, damn the platform, came from the carrier side. Sink the carrier if you have to to take out the enemy. Damn the damage or equipment failures, keep going until your cruise was done or you were actively sinking came from the submarine side. The Chief of the Boat had coined the new motto: “We don’t go home until we’re out of food or bodies.”
Prael wasn’t an entirely unknown item. He’d taken over the helm almost three months ago. But how he’d deal in deep space was going to be interesting to find out. In the meantime, though, Weaver was going to have to confess to failure.
“I can’t get supply to cough up any more 413, sir,” Bill admitted. “I tried but the clerk wants variances on budget and authorization to release her full supply. The latter is stupid, frankly, because we’re the only ship authorized to draw on that item.”
“Ran afoul of Clerk Click, did you, XO?” the skipper said, grinning. Prael was a large man with an easy manner that belied years spent on the nuke side. Nuke officers tended to be OCD to an annoying extent, but when you’re in charge of a nuclear reactor that is right on the edge of being a nuclear bomb, attention to detail is a survival trait. Prael had that in spades, but not the constant tension and didactness that normally accompanied it.
“You know her, sir,” Bill said. It was not a question.
“Oh, yes,” Prael replied. “I can see you’re already developing the twitch. Captain, you may be a fine astrogator and experienced in space combat. But you have much to learn about how the Navy really operates. I will admit, though, that it is part of my duty to teach you. Very well, XO, as part of your professional development, I will instruct you in the proper method for wheedling Clerk Click. First, you compliment her on her hair…”
“But her hair is thinning and that style is…”
“God awful,” the skipper said, nodding. “Revolting, Disgusting. Compliment it. Then you ask how her dogs are getting on.”
“Dogs?”
“Pomeranians. Fat, hairy pirhanna with teeth. She had eight last time I dealt with her,” the CO replied. “Then you ask her if she’s lost weight. She will then fill you in on the details of her newest diet. You have to agree to try it since it’s amazing its effect.”
“She’s lost weight?”
“Never in my experience. Then and only then do you compliment her outfit. Since she appears to only have three such outfits, all equally revolting, in eye-seering colors that even the Adar would never wear, you have to lie through your teeth on that one. When you are done with complimenting her, listening to the latest medical horror story about her dogs or herself or both, when she is finished telling you to drink your own urine…”
“Surely not!”
“Then and only then do you bring up the particular item that you need her to authorize,” the CO said.
“But…the…”
“Click. That God awful, revolting, disgusting…annoying doesn’t begin to cover it, click?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Captain,” Prael said, sternly. “You are a United States Naval Officer. Did John Paul Jones flinch in the face of English gunnery? Did Halsey back off at Midway? Did Dewey flee from the Spanish? No. Nor shall you flee that God-awful click, Captain! If it makes you feel any better, we’re reasonably sure that the Admirals, may their souls rot in hell, keep her in her position as a test of all XOs. To make CO, you have to be able to stand… The Click! If you can stand the Click, no lesser torture will do. But that is for tomorrow. Have you noticed the time?”
“Oh, Christ,” Bill replied, accessing his plant. “I must have muted the alarm!”
“Or never noticed it in the face of The Click,” Prael said, nodding. “It can do that. It’s a most amazing sound. But we have other places to be. Right. Now. Dress fast.”
“How’s it going, son?” Steve Bergstresser asked.
“I’m ready to go,” Eric replied, still fiddling with his field scarf. It was that or stand around twitching.
“Come ‘ere,” his dad said, turning him around. He touched the tie into place and pulled a probably imaginary bit of lint off the spotless uniform. “It’s going to be fine. Admittedly, the chapel is packed…”
“Oh, God,” Eric groaned. “Dr. Pierson is going to have a heart attack! He can’t afford a wedding this big.”
“Dr. Pierson is a former submariner,” Mr. Bergstresser said. “He’s practically bubbling over. He’s got three admirals and the Commandant attending. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a father of the bride happy about paying for a wedding.”
“I just wish it was over,” Eric replied.
“A common problem,” Steve said. “Weddings are for brides.”
“And honeymoons are for grooms,” Josh added with a grin.
“Watch your tongue, young man,” Mr. Bergstresser snapped. “All that the groom is required to do is show up on time.”
“And reasonably sober,” Josh added, apparently unrepentant. “That’s your problem, Eric. You’re sober. I’ve got some moonshine…”
“Quit playing the West Virginia hick, Josh,” Eric said. “It doesn’t go with the earring and the Goth look.”
“It’s time,” 2LT Burt Tomlinson said, sticking his head in the room. The newly minted lieutenant was one of Eric’s fellow candidates, a group of whom were attending the wedding and acting as ushers.
“Don’t lock your knees,” Eric’s dad said as they headed for the door. “You’ll pass out.”
“They teach us that in Basic, dad,” Eric replied. “And again in OCS.”
“Yeah, and this is one time you’ll forget. And try not to stand rigidly at attention. It makes you look nervous.”
“I’ve got two ways to stand when I’m wearing a uniform, Dad,” Eric said. “Attention or parade rest. Take your pick.”
“You know,” SEAL Chief Warrant Officer Third Miller whispered as Weaver slid in next to him, “Arriving after the bride could have permanently killed your career.”
Miller had first met Dr. Weaver when the latter was sent to examine the then new Chen Anomaly and figure out what was going on. He’d been caught in most of the resulting mess and suffered most of the resulting experiences. Along the way he’d developed a degree of admiration for the academic who was caught up in normal SEAL derring do. Weaver hadn’t quit, hadn’t laid down and just kept coming, no matter what the universe, gates and the Dreen threw at him. It also helped to have someone as smart as Dr. Weaver around when the problem wasn’t something you could shoot or blow up.
More or less shanghaied for the first mission of the Vorpal Blade, Miller had been less thrilled about Commander Weaver. Weaver’s commission and advancement didn’t just smell of special privilege, it absolutely reaked of it. But, again, Weaver had been a good choice for the position of Astrogator. The Blade ran into a lot of strange stuff between the stars and Weaver, with some assistance, had managed to figure out a way through over and over again.
Captain Weaver was getting to be a bit much, though. Captains were supposed hoary old salts with eyes wrinkled from decades squinting into the sun. Admittedly, neither he nor Weaver were spring-chickens, but Weaver had somehow managed to keep a boyish look, and boyishness, despite all the stuff they’d both seen and done. Looking at him in uniform, people sometimes wondered if he’d stolen his Dad’s for dress-up.
“What did Two-Gun do to deserve all this brass?” Weaver replied.
From what Weaver had gathered, both Berg and his bride-to-be were popular in their hometown but since the wedding was relatively far from home, neither had the sort of universal showing you would expect. Despite that, the small chapel was packed out.
On the bride’s side were her family and the parents of her three maids of honor. They fit in the two front rows. On the groom’s side, his family and a couple of friends from home also filled the two front rows.
But immediately behind them was the sort of brass you’d expect at a major military wedding. Three admirals, ranging from the Chief of Astronomical Operations, Admiral Robert Townsend, to a newly minted two-star named Blankemeier, the Commandant of the Marine Corps and the brigadier in charge of Force Recon. Each was accompanied by their wife. Behind them was a row of aides, including the Navy captain who was the aide to the CAO. Behind them was a row of ladies, presumably the wives of the newly minted lieutenants doing usher duty. Then more Marines, with a sprinkling of sailors, spilling over to the bride’s side.
“The way I got it, Spectre asked for the day off to attend a wedding. He’s working for Bob Townsend now so Bob asked who was getting married. When the CAO said he was going to the wedding, the rest figured it was mandatory. Well, except Spectre. And the Commandant.”
Since the end of the Dreen War – and the more or less simultaneous end of the War on Terror as the mujaheddin fed themselves to the Dreen in profligate numbers – there hadn’t been many opportunities for the military to excel. At least known opportunities. The still Top Secret Vorpal Blade project was the exception. The Marines and sailors of the Vorpal Blade had faced more threats than any five divisions of regular troops over the last two years. And the casualty rates had been on the same order.
In other times and other wars it might have been unusual to see the space version of the Chief of Naval Operations and the Commandant of the Marine Corps turn up for the wedding of a Marine Second Lieutenant, no matter how renowned. But Two-Gun Berg was, by far and away, the best known of the Marine security contingent of the Blade. As such he was something of a celebrity within a very small and very black community. It didn’t hurt that he was a damned nice kid.
“I mean, let’s just do the list, shall we?” Miller whispered. “Stopped the crab-pus attack on Runner’s World while it was eating up the rest of the Marines like so much popcorn. Saved the conn of the Blade, more or less single-handed. Did the drop on Cheerick. Point man into the Dragon Room. Just about the last man standing in same. The guy who found the sole survivor of the HD 36951 colony. Point man in multiple EVAs on same mission. The guy who figured out how to survive the entry of the Dreen dreadnought. Killed a rhino-tank at short range, more or less single-handed. Last but not least, the guy who captured the aforementioned dreadnought, again single-handed.”
“Hey, I was there for most of that!” Weaver whispered back. “So were you, and closer. And it wasn’t exactly single-handed.”
“Quit mucking with my narrative,” Miller said. “Alvin York wasn’t exactly by himself. The point is the story that’s become Two-Gun Berg, the guy who keeps going into the fire and emerging unscathed. That is why the CAO, the Commandant and ComLinSpac are here. Partially, it’s in homage to a fine Marine, partially, I think, that they’re hoping some of his luck, and a lot of what he did came down to luck, wears off on them. The brass that have seen the intel estimates must be shitting a brick.”
“Shhhh,” Weaver whispered as the organist, who had been doodling along with various light music, suddenly shifted to the Wedding March.
“Let’s hope this goes off without a hitch,” Miller nonetheless whispered back as a tall, blonde girl entered the room holding the arm of her father. “I know people are going to take it as an omen, one way or the other.”
Eric, frankly, didn’t remember much of the ceremony. He remembered seeing Brooke and thinking that she was just about the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life and then he was kissing her. All the bits in the middle were missing. He’d experienced the condition in combat before. One of the dozens of psychologists everyone on the missions had to talk to in after-action reviews had used the term ‘lack of ego awareness.’ Things happened and then it was over. He apparently got his bits right.
Normally, the bride was the first person out of the chapel. In this case, after the twosome paraded down the altar at the direction of the chaplain who ran the small facility, everyone else filed out first. When the chapel was clear, he and Brooke were directed to leave.
He took Brooke’s arm and they walked down the aisle. He tried like hell to ignore the fact that the Commandant was watching them. He also realized that he was walking so stiffly his legs were barely moving.
When they exited the chapel the reason for the change became obvious. His fellow OCS cadets had formed a sword-arch outside the doors. He and Brooke walked through the aisle to cheers and a bit of boozy breath; the cadets had clearly started partying early.
He helped Brooke into the limousine then more or less tumbled in behind her.
“Was this shiny?” he asked, quietly. Brooke was looking a little frozen.
“It was great,” she replied, her face breaking into a smile. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. “Perfect. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Eric said, finally able to breathe.
“I was just surprised at some of the people,” Brooke said. “I didn’t want to get anything wrong in front of your bosses.”
“Those people are my bosses the way that Bill Gates is the boss of a lowly Micro-Vac programmer,” Eric said. “I’m not even going to try to figure out why they asked to attend. All we have to do is survive the reception and we’re out of here.”
“You just want to do more than what my mother refers to as ‘spooning,’” Brooke said, grinning.
“I just want to get out from under the gaze of the Commandant,” Eric said, smiling back. “Not to say that I’m not looking forward to tonight.”
“And no alcohol for you at the reception,” Brooke said, crawling onto his lap. “At least that’s what Mom suggested.”
“‘Wine giveth the desire but taketh the ability,’” Eric quoted.
“Is that from the Bible?” Brooke asked.
“Close,” Eric replied with a grin. “Shakespeare.”
“Captain,” Admiral Townsend said, nodding at Weaver.
“Admiral,” Weaver replied.
The reception had turned into an odd affair. Held at the Quantico Officer’s Club, it was buffet style with tables and chairs but no defined places. It had started off rather aggressively split between the civilian attendees and the military. That slowly changed as it became evident that many of the civilians, the male ones at least, were former military. The town Eric and Brooke derived from had more than its share of veterans and while they tended to avoid the ‘brass’, they had been more than willing to seek out the more junior officers, and the few enlisted permitted for this occasion on hallowed ground, for conversation.
The ladies, on the other hand, had completely ignored the civilian/military divide. Which had Brooke’s grandmother, who with only few exceptions had never left the confines of a small West Virginia town, in deep conversation with Mrs. Admiral Townsend, both of whose children had been born outside the Contiguous United States, one in Hawaii and one in Japan.
“I’m waiting for someone to ask why we’re all here,” the CAO said.
“You’re looking at the wrong Captain, sir,” Weaver replied. “I’ve spent more than half my total career in black operations. I don’t ask questions unless they’re germane.”
“Touche,” Townsend said, chuckling. “I’d forgotten you were in the black community before you got shanghaied.”
“I wouldn’t call it shanghaied, sir,” Weaver replied, shrugging. “I volunteered.”
“I talked to Jim Bennett, who in case you didn’t know it was the guy who greased your skids,” the Admiral said, referring to a former Chief of Naval Operations. “He said he knew from the beginning that there wasn’t a Naval officer who was going to be right for the Blade, one who really understood space. One choice was pulling back one of the Navy officers with NASA. But most of them were more expert at near-space, which wasn’t going to get us anywhere. Then there were some officers associated with the Observatory, but they were a bit…”
“Geekish?” Weaver asked.
“Probably the best way to put it,” Townsend admitted. “But the SEAL after action reports from the Dreen War indicated that you were anything but geekish. Bennett quietly arranged, without either you or Columbia realizing it, to pull you off the project over and over again, figuring you’d get fed up and try another tack. When you volunteered, it fit his plans exactly.”
“So I was manipulated into becoming an officer?” Weaver asked, aghast. “He could have just asked.”
“Probably what I would have done,” Townsend admitted. “But Jim was a bit more Machiavellian than I. Anyway, just thought you should know.”
“Shiny,” Bill said. “Somehow that gives me the courage to ask. Are you all here because Berg is a really nice kid or for some other reason?”
“Oh, Berg is a nice kid,” Townsend admitted. “But the President wanted to come and couldn’t. So he ordered me and the Commandant to attend. Spectre was coming, anyway. Everybody else? I think they just assumed if we were attending…”
“It must be mandatory,” Weaver added with a chuckle. “More or less what Chief Miller said, except for the first bit.”
“What the President doesn’t realize is that this could have been a disaster,” the CAO continued. “On many levels. One of them being curiosity. So far the press hasn’t asked why we’re all here. They still may. They’re getting closer and closer to the truth.”
“I saw the article in the Washington Times, sir,” Bill said. The Inside the Ring article speculated, based on a number of data items, that the US either had a space drive or was approaching having one. An earlier article had reported from ‘an anonymous source’ that the Dreen had been located in real space and were somewhere near the Orion stars. That had probably come from the destruction of the HD 36951 colony. But with all the money that was going towards planning the Space Navy, the appointment of the CAO, the changes in training for every branch of the Navy… The reality was bound to break sooner or later. “I think the President’s playing a very dangerous game in not releasing the information.”
“He’s the Commander-In-Chief,” the CAO responded. “It’s up to him, not us.”
“Understood, sir,” Bill replied. “Just my opinion as a citizen, not an officer.”
“And one thing to learn as an officer is that that is a very fine line,” the CAO said. “That was not a reaming, just pointing it out. You skipped a bunch of steps in your professional development and that might not have gotten through to you. We may have private political opinions, especially those based on our proprietary knowledge. We may voice them with close friends and peers. But we don’t act on them except in the privacy of the ballot box. Among other things, even when we think we have the knowledge necessary to make a decision, often we’re not privy to everything.”
“Yes, sir,” Bill said, trying not to smile. “And the officers who clearly have too many friends in the press corps?”
“If I find them, I will quietly move them out of any position of proprietary knowledge at all,” the CAO said. “I’d, frankly, prefer to move them to Davy Jone’s Locker, but there is so much paperwork involved in something like that. Diego Garcia will have to do. But so far the details are holding. So far. I should leave.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Bill said.
“Young Bergstresser appears to want to introduce his bride to you,” the CAO said, gesturing with his chin.
The bride and groom were circulating and being congratulated. Weaver had been watching one of the bride’s maids, a particularly pulchritudinous example of woman-flesh, and hadn’t noticed Berg and his bride getting closer and closer. As he glanced over, though, he caught a flash of Two-Gun looking their way and it was obvious he was unwilling to approach with the CAO there.
The next time Berg looked up, Weaver caught his eye and gestured with his head for him to come over. Berg’s glance at the CAO was clear so Weaver repeated the gesture.
"Sir, Two-Gun has faced some of the worst monsters in the Galaxy," Weaver said as the bride and groom approached. "He can face the Chief of Astronautical Operations."
"Admiral Townsend," Berg said, nodding formally at the CAO, "may I present my bride, Mrs. Brooke Bergstresser."
"Of course, Lieutenant," the CAO said, taking Brooke's hand and bowing to kiss it formally. "Mrs. Bergstresser, you are a vision. It is said that every bride is beautiful but you exceed all expectations."
"Thank you, sir," Brooke said, blushing.
"I know that you feel you've picked the finest man on earth to marry," the Admiral continued. "And I agree. Sometime, sometime quite soon, you will be finding out just how extraordinary this young man is."
"Does that mean that his missions won't be..." Brooke's forehead furrowed for a moment then she shrugged. "I think the term is ‘black'? Eric won't really talk about what he does."
"He can't," the CAO said, nodding. "I'm sorry for that but that's the rule and I'm glad to hear that he's following it. But, yes, pretty soon the operation will go white. How soon, I'm not at liberty to divulge."
Weaver's ears perked up at that. One bit of information that the CAO clearly had, and Bill did not, was that the decision to go white had been made and there was timing on it.
"But when it does, all will become clear," the Admiral continued. "Including what an extraordinary man you've married."
"I already know he's extraordinary, sir," Brooke said. "But thank you."
"Two-Gun," the Admiral said, "you've got a week. Use it well."
"Yes, sir," the Lieutenant said, nodding. "Can I get a hint?"
"We're becoming archaelogists," Weaver replied. "I think that's indirect enough, isn't it, sir?"
"Just fine," the CAO said. "Archaeological mission, Lieutenant. Should be routine."
"Our normal routine, sir?" Berg asked, trying not to grin. "Or ‘routine' routine."
"Routine, routine," the CAO answered. "But we never know, do we?"
"No, sir, we don't," Eric admitted. "And, Brooke, this is Commander Weaver. I told you about him."
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, sir," Brooke said, looking him up and down. "You don't look like...what I expected."
The CAO barked a laugh at that and shook his head.
"People tend to say that," Bill replied. "They generally expect someone older and with less hair. And, please, call me Bill."
"Actually, I was wondering that you're not ten feet tall and breathing fire," Brooke corrected, grinning. "Bill."
"In that case, Eric has been exaggerating," Weaver said. "I have to add my compliments to the Admiral's. You are truly stunning. Eric is a very lucky guy."
"That I am, sir," Berg said.
"What are your plans?" the CAO asked. "And to be clear, I'm referring to after the honeymoon."
"I've secured off-post quarters, sir," Eric replied. "Brooke will be occupying those and intends to apply for college."
"Well, it'll be easier to survive on lieutenant's pay, that's for sure," Townsend said. His aide whispered in his ear for a moment then handed over a message form. The admiral read it, his expression unchanging, then looked up and smiled. "I hope you both do well. The Captain and I, however, have a previous appointment."
"Yes, sir, I understand," Berg said, tugging at Brooke's arm. "Thank you for coming."
"Get Admiral Blankemeier and General Holberg," Townsend said to his aide. "I'll take Captain Weaver vice Captain Prael. Is transportation laid on?"
"Yes, sir," the Navy captain said.
"Let's do this."
"May I ask what my previously scheduled event is, sir?" Bill said, quietly.
"We have to go to Camp David," the CAO said. "There's a meeting there in the morning. It seems the Russians and the Chinese are aware of the Blade."
"Who is the girl with the blue hair?" Brooke asked, gesturing with her chin to a girl in a skimpy black dress dancing with a tall, incredibly stiff Marine. The girl looked to be in her early twenties and had bright red hair with a shock of blue dye at the front. "Is that a girlfriend I should know about?"
"We went out clubbing, once," Eric replied. "But girlfriend would be stretching it. She's a linguist, a really good one. Sort of a savante."
"I'm not sure what that means," Brooke admitted.
Eric thought of the linguist in the Cavern of the Dragons, stretching out her hand and directing the opening of the gates. Nobody had been able to figure out the puzzle, but it was as if the linguist was God-touched in some way. She certainly was strange enough.
“I’m not sure I can explain it, either,” Eric admitted. “But she’s special. Not retarded special, the other way. Gifted. Almost scary sometimes. We work with a lot of top-flight people but Miriam’s…”
“I can see you like her,” Brooke said, tightly.
“Not that way,” Berg replied, grinning at her. “She’s way too weird for me. But, yeah, I like her and admire her. Same deal with the guy she’s dancing with. Sergeant Lynch. We call him Lurch cause he’s so messed up. And tall.”
“That’s not very nice,” Brooke said.
“Worse than you think,” Eric said. “He got that way in a roll-over. Spent most of a year in therapy then nearly as much time convincing the Marines to let him back on active. Then he went back through Force Recon Qual and operator training to get in the line units. Gotta admire that much determination. Good operator.”
“And that means what?” Brooke asked. “For that matter, what are quarters? You said something about ‘securing quarters.’ I figure you don’t mean the coins…”
“Quarters are where you live,” Berg said, pulling Brooke towards the two-some. “Securing off-post quarters meant I got us an apartment.”
“Why not just say you got an apartment?” Brooke asked, curiously.
“It was the CAO,” Berg replied. “That’s how we talk. You’ll get used to it.”
“Two-Gun,” the tall sergeant said. “And his lovely wife. Do I get a kiss?”
“Of course,” Brooke said, lifting up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. He still had to bend over. The sergeant was tall and thin as a rail but with a wiry toughness that was apparent in corded forearms. “You’re Mr. Lynch?”
“Sergeant Lynch,” the sergeant said. “But you can call me Lurch.”
“And this is Miss Moon,” Berg continued, gesturing to Miriam.
“Miriam,” the linguist said, shaking Brooke’s hand then giving her a hug. “I’m so glad you two are together. You seem so right for each other. You’re staying in Newport?”
“Norfolk,” Berg corrected. “Housing in Newport is impossible. I was looking at a small house, but an apartment made more sense.”
“I haven’t even seen it, yet,” Brooke admitted.
“Not how it’s supposed to go, Two-Gun,” Lynch said. “Wives are in charge of quarters.”
“I’m letting her get her feet on the ground,” Berg admitted.
“I wonder what sort of officer’s wives club the new CO’s going to run,” Lynch said. “I heard it was pretty good under Mrs. Spectre.”
“Just have to find out,” Berg said. “But, again, I’m going to let Brooke get used to the whole idea first.”
“What is an officer’s wives’ club?” Brooke asked. “I’m getting a bit lost here.”
“The military is a specialized culture with a tremendous number of traditions,” Miriam said, looking at her almost sorrowfully. “As with any subculture, it has its own language and customs. Some of them are unnecessary hold-overs from days when it was often physically separated from civilization or at least its home civilization. Think of Army officers and their families stationed in cavalry outposts on the Great Plains or the Naval officers stationed in the Phillipines or even Hawaii before it became fully developed. Surrounded by strangers, many of them hostile and all of them from societies that were alien. The only social life they had was their own kind.
“Then there is the fact that military families face stresses unfamiliar to the culture that produces them. Police officers and firefighters face as many risks and during times of peace even more than the military. But if a firefighter or policeman is injured or killed in the line of duty, the families find it out almost immediately. And the officer’s commander is there to bring the bad news.
“With the military, death or injury can occur so far away that it takes time for information to reach the families. And there is the unknowing. The waiting for news, good or bad, and so often convincing yourself that it’s going to be bad.”
“That I know about,” Brooke said, finally really getting it. “I met Eric just before his last mission. And I was on pins and needles waiting for word.”
“Quick work, buddy,” Lynch said, doing the math.
“I asked her to marry me as soon as we got back,” Berg said, grinning. “She made the mistake of saying yes. And almost the whole time, since, I’ve been in OCS.”
“That sort of separation is normal in the military, unfortunately,” Miriam continued. “Civilians don’t have to put up with it, normally, and find it very strange. They don’t understand the stresses even if they try to be nice about them. Often, they don’t understand why the spouse puts up with them. So the military tries to help, often doing the opposite, with spouse support groups. They’re generally organized by the commanding officer’s wife, one of the duties that you’ll have to take over if Eric ever reaches that lofty state. Sometimes there are severe generational clashes, but those are fading. There are always societal clashes, especially with newlyweds. Newly wed spouses often don’t understand the point. That is, until they need the support of people like them. And, of course, as with anything bad leadership can make something like that truly horrible. In which case, they’re generally voluntary.”
“Yeah, but if she decides she’s going to sit it out, a bad CO’s wife will go complaining to her husband,” Lynch pointed out. “Sometimes you can have a great CO and a horrible wife. Or the other way around. I knew one unit that wished its boss and his wife could change places. Nobody knew why she put up with the bastard.”
“Eric, do you want to be a career officer?” Miriam asked. “Do you want to do twenty years and retire as a colonel? Or do you want stars?”
“I got all of that but stars,” Brooke said.
“She’s asking if I want to be a general,” Berg said. “Sure, I mean I’ve thought about it. Who doesn’t? But I’m not sure if I’m going to even reup as an officer. I more or less have to do four years, but…”
“Brooke, would you prefer that he just do four years then get out?” Miriam asked, turning to the bride. “Or do you want him to be a general? Do you want him to wear stars?”
“I want him to do whatever will make him happiest,” Brooke said.
“I feel the same way about Brooke,” Berg interjected.
“Then, Brooke, you have to decide if you want to be Mrs. General Bergstresser,” Miriam said, gesturing to the Commandant’s wife, who coincidentally was chatting with Brooke’s mom. “If you do, behind every successful person is a strong spouse. Officers are no different, be they male or female. You have to decide if you’re willing to play the political game and back your new husband, often at your own expense. There are tremendous sacrifices that military families make, long separations, bad housing, often a degree of hostility from the local community and lower pay than they can generally get in the civilian world. You’ll spend years raising your children on your own, knowing your husband often as a stranger who drags in a bag of dirty laundry and leaves as soon as it’s done. And if he continues in the vein he’s chosen so far, never knowing when you’ll get a call from his CO saying that he won’t be coming home. A casket filled with parts will be lucky, more likely it will just be weighed down with sandbags. And even if you have played the perfect wife, which will often be at the expense of whatever career you’ve chosen, you’ll have lost the game. And you’ll have little or no control of how that game’s been played.”
“This is a great conversation for a new bride to hear,” Lurch complained.
“Mrs. Commandant probably had something she was planning on doing today,” Miriam pointed out, shrugging. “Because her husband, for whatever reason, decided to attend this event, she had to give up her plans. It’s the sort of thing he had to bring his wife to. And she had to go. Or he’d never have made Commandant. And now he’s leaving, without her.”
“What?” Berg said, looking over at the door. The senior brass were quietly filing out followed by their aides but not their wives. Weaver was with them, as well. But not Miller who was holding up the bar and apparently telling war stories. But he caught the exit, Berg could tell.
“That bodes poorly for us,” Lurch said. “Because that looks like an emergency exit.”
“And an emergency for the Gods eventually becomes our emergency,” Berg said. “But I’m not even in-processed. So if you end up launching tomorrow, I won’t be there.”
“Be a shame to launch without our good-luck talisman,” Lurch said, grinning. “But if we gotta… Oh, hell, I haven’t had pre-mission, yet.”
“Pre-mission on the cruise again?” Berg said, wincing. “I know that’s going to be my lot. Just once I’d like to get pre-mission in in the normal timeframe.”
“I, however, have had pre-mission,” Miriam said, smiling. “I weedled it out of Dr. Chet as soon as we knew a mission was coming up.”
“You’re supposed to be in lock-up,” Berg said, frowning.
“Different rules for technical specialists,” Miriam said. “Brooke, you look as if you’re still processing what I told you.”
“I am,” Brooke admitted. “And trying to catch up with the language.”
“I can give you a dictionary,” Miriam said, smiling. “I wrote it after the first mission. Nothing that violates operational security, but it might help.”
“If you would, please,” Brooke said, nodding.
“I’ll email it to you,” Miriam replied. “Have you given any thought to it?”
“I sort of already did,” Brooke said. “Eric and I were… Well we were sort of on a date when he got a call and had to go.”
“The term for which is ‘recalled,’” Miriam said. “I was supposed to be presenting a paper that day; I remember it well.”
“And then I didn’t know what was going to happen,” Brooke said, frowning. “I got one short message from him and sent him one.”
“And did you talk to your friends, to your mother, about it?”
“Yeah,” Brooke admitted. “And my friends…”
“Didn’t get it,” Miriam said. “And thus we’re back to the spouse association. The point of such an organization, a well run one anyway, is that they do get it. There’s a lot of clap-trap associated with it, stupid parties that are sincerely lacking in men, dresses and hats and gloves, fortunately, have mostly gone the way of the dinosaur. But the point, under all the formality and the social overlay, is a group of people who are stuck in an unusual situation and have to adapt to it. A situation that the people outside that group, the friends they had back home for example, generally don’t ‘get.’”
“I get it,” Brooke said, grinning. “What does your spouse, who I presume isn’t military, think about it?”
“What spouse?” Miriam asked, holding up her left hand. Other than a ring in the shape of a spider on the middle finger it was unadorned.
“And, uh, you go on these…missions?” Brooke asked.
“I promise I won’t steal your husband, Brooke,” Miriam said, softly. “He’s a very nice guy and you make a great couple. But, frankly, he’d bore me to tears in a month, no more.”
“Well thank you very much,” Berg said.
“Two-Gun, you’re a very nice young man, but you are very young and although you’re very smart you’re also very focused,” Miriam said. “And not in areas I find interesting. From where I stand, that adds up to booooring.”
“What about me?” Lurch asked when the group stopped laughing.
“Nice boy-toy, maybe,” Miriam said. “Less than a month. Weekend at most. No, three hours. Max.”
“You’re very…frank,” Brooke said.
“Only when it doesn’t hurt people,” Miriam replied. “Sergeant Lynch, were you hurt by that comment?”
“Not a bit,” Lurch said. “You’re pretty, but I’ve been around you when you’re bored. No thank you. Crazier than a ferret on catnip.”
“And the new ship doesn’t have any pipes to paint!” Miriam wailed.
“You guys are nothing but in jokes,” Brooke said. “Can you at least explain that one? And why people call him Two-Gun?”
“Gentlemen,” the president said, shaking the admirals’ and generals’ hands. “Thank you for coming. Some introductions are in order. Bob?”
“Gentlemen, General Wang Zhenou, Army of the People’s Republic of China,” the National Security Advisor said, gesturing to an Asian gentleman in a polo shirt and jeans. “General Anatoly Karmasov, Russian Army,” a short, heavy-set man in country and western wear that looked a tad ludicrous, “and General Amjit Meennav,” a tall, slender and dark skinned man in Sikh dress.
“Admiral Townsend, Chief of Astronautic Operations, and Admiral Blankemeier, Director of Astronautic Operations. General Holberg, Commandant of the Marine Corps. Captain Weaver, Executive Officer of the Alliance Space Ship Vorpal Blade. And, of course, Colonel Fordham-Witherspoon, of her Majesty’s British Government.”
“And so we are gathered,” the president said as a steward served coffee. “General Wang, would you care to lay out your initial statement?”
“The People’s Government finds it unacceptable that the United States has concealed the ability to not only defy gravity but fly into space from the peoples of the world,” the general said, gruffly. “This is a direct insult to the People’s government and all governments who believe in sovereignty and respect between nations.”
“If you truly believed in sovereignty then you would not raise an issue with another country concealing such a thing,” the Indian said in an Oxford accent. “So your response seems somewhat hypocritical. What you really mean is you want it and you’re trying to pressure the Americans to give it to you.”
“I have a point of order,” the Russian general said in a thick accent. “The Motherland’s government has had knowledge, for some time, that our dear neighbors to the south were aware of the dastardly experiments on the part of the Americans. However, I am wondering why my esteemed colleague from the sub-continent is present.”
“In other words, our subs weren’t chasing the Americans so how could we know?” the Sikh asked. “At the insistence of their British ‘colleagues’, the Americans brought us in on the secret some two months ago. And it’s a bit broader than you’re aware. So I would suggest you hold all your bluster and opening arguments for a later time, because, in the Adar vernacular, we are seriously grapped.”
“Captain Weaver?” the president said. “I understand you prepared a briefing?”
“Actually, an overworked lieutenant commander in AstroOps prepared it, sir,” Bill said, standing up. “I’m just giving it. Gentlemen, I give you the Alliance Space Ship Vorpal Blade Mod One,” Weaver said, keying on the screen.
“One?” the Russian asked, sitting up.
“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the changes,” Bill said. “Your intel corps is better than that. The Vorpal Blade One was designed around the former USS Nebraska. The engine, which I’m sure you’re all itching to study, was an artifact the Adar found and we Americans got tinkered into a drive. Were we actually to release it for study, which we’re not, trust me and my professional background when I say that you would find it as baffling and enigmatic as we have. It is so far ahead of our technology, it is not even funny. Magic is a better description. It is not only capable of normal space flight, but of warp flight.”
He stared at the Chinese delegate as he said that and couldn’t get anything from him. If the Chinese knew about the warp capability, the general wasn’t letting on.
“Using it, we have accomplished two separate deep-space missions,” Bill continued. “The first was a local area survey during which we encountered several astronomical issues, landed on a few planets, got ourselves beaten up thoroughly, encountered another friendly alien race and got ourselves beaten up even more thoroughly by a biological planetary defense system.”
“Was this Dreen?” the Chinese delegate asked. The Chinese had not had any Dreen gates in their country. Since the war, however, there had been reports of occasional Dreen outbreaks. As with many countries, they had looked upon the Dreen as a potential biological weapon of enormous ability. And like every country which had tinkered with them, save the US and Britain as far as Weaver knew, they’d lost control of the infestation.
Dreen spread-fungus was nasty. It actively tried to escape and would produce enzymes and acids until it found a combination that got it out of its holding vessel. Keeping the result from spreading was nearly impossible.
“No,” Bill said, switching to the next slide. “The system was either designed by the Cheerick, this chinchilla-like species, or some older race. However, it was determined during the mission that the Cheerick could control it. It produces various ground and air combat systems as well as a space combat system termed Dragonflies. They are capable of normal space operations and fire laser beams from their compound eyes.”
“Oh, very good,” the Russian said, starting to stand up. “This is some joke you play on us, yes?”
“General, this joke blew the hell out of our ship,” Bill said, tightly. “We were slag when we got back to earth and that was after we did repairs on Cheerick. The Dragonflies are no joke, especially with a couple of hundred coming at you.”
“You were there?” the Chinese general said. “You were on this mission?”
“I was the astrogator, General,” Bill replied. “We lost all but five of our forty-one Marines and about half of our Navy crew as well as numerous civilian scientists and all of our Special Forces scientific assistants. May I continue?”
“Please,” the Asian said.
“The second mission was an emergency mission to determine why we’d lost contact with a colony,” Bill said, bringing up another slide. It was of a standard harsh-world science station, bubble tents and rocky soil. “The planet was HD 36951 Gamma Five. It was an archaeological station which had been attacked by an unknown force. We determined that it had been destroyed by the Dreen and rescued one survivor. Then we found remnants of a battle in the Tycho 714-1046-1 system. Following the trail of one of the ships, we encountered another race the Hexosehr.
“The Hexosehr had recently battled the Dreen and lost. The ship was the last major battle platform that defended a refugee fleet of hand-picked survivors. Most of them were in cold-sleep and the Hexosehr had fled with over a million of them. Of course, that was out of a total population, on six worlds, of just over two billion.”
“Barely your country and mine combined,” the Indian said, smiling and looking at the Chinese delegate.
“If bodies was all that was going to help, the mujaheddin would have won in Lebanon,” the president pointed out. “Continue, Captain.”
“We assisted their battleship in repairs,” Weaver said. “And then went ahead to inform their refugee fleet that it had survived. The fleet had to refuel and was stopped in the HD 37355 system. The Blade assisted the Hexosehr in holding the system and, in fact, in stopping the Dreen task force. However, she was virtually scrap by the end of the battle. The Hexosehr roused their workforce and between the scrap metal from the Blade and their factory ships created a new ship from the ground up. Thus the A-S-S Vorpal Blade Two. The rest of the briefing will be handled by Mr. Ascher.”
“Information from the Hexosehr and a Dreen dreadnought we captured during the battle indicates that the Dreen are spreading rapidly,” the National Security Advisor said. “They are spreading in every direction through what are called ‘local bubbles.’ In our direction, they are currently in the Orion local bubble, where most of the action the Captain just described took place. There are two local bubbles between ours and that one. Hexosehr estimates, and our own, place the arrival of overwelming Dreen normal space forces at between twelve and twenty years. Best estimate is fifteen.”
“Bolshemoi,” the Russian muttered. “This is…not well news.”
“That estimate assumes two things. That they do not find out the location of earth and that even if they do they do not want to jump ahead.”
“If I may add one note,” Bill said, diffidently.
“Go ahead, Captain,” the NSA said, nodding.
“The Dreen, and the Hexosehr, use a warp technology that is similar to wormhole jumping,” Bill said. “We’re still studying it. But they jump, rather slowly compared to the Blade, from star to star. In normal space, the Hexosehr fleet will not reach our region for at least two years. The majority of the Dreen are further out. If they found out where earth was today, they would take at least two years to reach here, more like three, in any force. This is part of the full briefing documents we are turning over to your governments, as I understand it.”
“The US government, the British government and the Adar planetary government are all aware of this new information,” the NSA said. “Our plan was to bring your governments in, through more or less normal diplomatic channels, next week. And, no, I’m not making that up. What we’ve been waiting on, frankly, is a documentary to be completed. Three, actually. One to assist the briefings of your governments and two for general consumption. At that point, the Hexosehr were going to be presented as well as the Cheerick ambassador to the Alliance. And it was intended to offer expansion of the Alliance to other earth governments. We’re fully aware that we cannot stop the Dreen by ourselves. No combination of the US and Britain can possibly do so. We know we were keeping you in the dark, but we didn’t intend to do so for much longer.”
“Frankly, this just jumped the gun by a week,” the President continued. “The general audience doumentary is complete. Would you care to see it? It’s three hours long, intended to run for three nights. But the chairs are comfortable…”
“I would,” the Chinese delegate said. “And you mentioned further information. Is this to be technical?”
“We’re going to be depending on technology from the Hexosehr,” the president said. “They are as far ahead of the Adar as the Adar are ahead of us. Perhaps further. It is Hexosehr technology that might permit humanity to survive. But it will require a world-wide effort, a coalition of the willing if you will. We have enough time to prepare. If we actually do so.”
“That is the rub, isn’t it?” the Indian said, smiling broadly. “The most effective economies on earth, all pardons to my Chinese colleague, are the democracies. Can we sustain a fifteen year build up? If we did, we would win. Unquestionably. In fifteen years we could establish colonies, schools, training facilities, build a fleet beyond even the comprehension of the Dreen. We could put in massive defenses if we went to a full wartime footing for even ten years. We have six billion people on this planet and with what I’ve seen of the Hexosehr manufacturing ability, which is amazing, it would just be a matter of training space sailors and Marines. But can we? Will we? Can we sustain such a push? At the cost to our economies? In the teeth of wailing as consumer goods become scarce?”
“We can,” the Chinese delegate said. “If this doesn’t turn out to be an elaborate tale.”
“You’ll be given all the data we recovered,” the president promised.
“Let us see this documentary, then,” the Russian said. “And could we have something stronger than coffee?”
“You’re sure you’re shiny?” Eric asked.
“I’m fine,” Brooke replied, grinning. “Better than fine. Okay, a bit sore.”
“I hadn’t realized you were…weren’t…” Eric said, trying to figure out how to put it delicately.
“Eric Bergstresser, I’m a good girl,” Brooke said, playfully. “And good girls wait.”
“Oh, you’re more than good,” Eric said, brushing some hair out of Brooke’s face. “You are amazing.”
“So are you,” Brooke replied, snuggling into his shoulder.
“Not all that amazing,” Berg said. “I’m sorry this was all I could swing for a honeymoon.”
The Holiday Inn, Seaside, in Virginia Beach was not exactly a five star hotel in some exotic location. But it also wasn’t as expensive and if they’d taken the travel time to go to someplace like Cancun, it would have cut time out of the honeymoon.
“This is perfect,” Brooke replied, nibbling his ear. “Wherever thou goest. I’m glad you didn’t do something expensive.”
“We might as well have just gone to the apartment,” Eric argued. “Of course, the apartment doesn’t have room service.”
“Which we won’t be using,” Brooke said, firmly. “We can go out long enough to find something less expensive.”
“If you say so,” Berg replied, puzzled.
“I suppose I should have talked about this sooner,” Brooke said, sitting up. “But it’s something momma made me promise I’d do early. So here goes. Can you let me take over the family finances?”
“Whatever you want, honey,” Berg said. “Right now, you could tell me to bark like a dog and I’d do it.”
“I’m serious, Eric,” Brooke said, pulling his chin up so he was looking her in the eye. “It’s something momma did when she and daddy first got married and she made sure I’d promise to do the same. You’re a lieutenant. Yes, that makes more than a petty officer, but not by all that much. And we’re going to have babies coming along, probably sooner rather than later. We’re going to have to be careful with money.”
“Agreed,” Berg said, shrugging. “Like I said, whatever you want. The only thing I spend money on, really, is my truck.”
“Which may have to go,” Brooke said, sighing. “If you’re not too reversed on the payments, we’ll need to trade it in on a family car.”
“Ouch,” Eric said. His truck was his one vanity. “If you say so.”
“I’ll make sure you have enough money to buy your rations in the officer’s club,” Brooke said. “And an allowance. But I’ll warn you, I’m a penny pincher. I hope you’re going to be able to handle that.”
“Yes, Brooke, I can,” Eric said. “Now can we cuddle some more?”
“Please,” Brooke said, sliding down into his arms. “Are we shiny?”
“I hate trying to figure money out,” Berg said. “We’re more than shiny. So we get a couple of family cars. I can handle that.”
“One,” Brooke said. “You’re going to be gone a lot; you won’t need one.”
“Shiny,” Eric said, binking in surprise at the response. “One it is. You really are a penny-pincher, aren’t you?”
“Enough to make George scream for mercy,” Brooke said, grinning. “When all the other girls would be buying stuff at the mall, I’d go along. But I never had the urge to get any of it. Way too expensive and you could find exactly the same stuff in thrift shops. Momma made most of my dresses and nobody could tell and I learned to sew early. It’s just a matter of being really careful with money and you can look as if you’re better off than other people while, in fact, not making nearly as much. You remember that conversation where Miriam was talking about your career?”
“Vividly,” Eric said.
“Then that’s the rest of the story,” Brooke said. “I’m not willing to settle for second best. I want to be a wife first and I want you to be somebody. I’m more than willing to play the spouse game if you’re willing to do what it takes to get stars. Are you?”
Eric thought about that for a few seconds.
“I don’t mind doing the jobs,” he temporized. “I mean, that will mean lots of staff positions. But I can do those, I’m sure. I’ll learn. But stars are a long way away.”
“Every step of the way is going to matter,” Brooke said. “Think hard if you really want to do it. I’ve seen the modern woman and I don’t want that. I want to be a traditional wife. Oh, sure, I’ll get a job. But I don’t want to be double income, no kids, do you?”
“No,” Eric said, definitely.
“So I’m going to be following your lead, not the other way around,” Brooke said. “And, sure, there might be some false steps along the way. Things might look bad from time to time. Maybe we’ll have to change course and ask for directions. But I need to know where, in general, we’re going. Is that to stars or not?”
“I’ve really got to think about that one,” Eric said. “Right now, I’m just concentrating on surviving the missions.”
“And please concentrate on that,” Brooke said. “But I don’t think it interferes, does it?”
“Not that I know of,” Eric said, then paused. “Well, spec ops officers rarely make stars. But those are the guys who marry to it and never get out. Spec ops as a lieutenant or a captain? That’s sort of like a good merit badge. I’m going to have to collect those, anyway.”
“So concentrate on surviving the missions,” Brooke said. “Please. But decide, sometime soon, if where you want to go is stars. Or if you’re going to be a major success in the civilian world. It changes what I do, how I act. If you’re going to go for a civilian career, I need to get a degree I can use to support you while you go back to school.”
“Shiny,” Eric said. “I repeat, you’re amazing.”
“You haven’t learned the half of it,” Brooke said. “Now, what was that you were explaining about positions?”
It had been a seemingly short three hours. The opening of the documentary - most of which was shot from surveillance cameras, external cameras on the ship and Wyvern systems – was definitely designed for the computer generation. Short clips of groups of people would zoom in on one, lay out a statistics and general information screen then give deeper background about each of the characters. Then Commander Weaver was there, including his background in the Dreen War, which was open-source information. There were also several Marines and sailors as well as the commander of the ship, Captain Stephen Blankemeier.
Internal surveillance cameras had caught several of the pre-mission briefings and a description of pre-mission physical, using some very nice computer generated imagery, was revolting enough that the Russian nearly lost his lunch.
Then there were the details of the missions. The more or less useless Dean’s World, Runner’s World with it’s deadly crabpus, nearly losing the ship and all the Marines. Some of the characters that had been built up were suddenly gone, eaten, mangled, ripped to shreds. But the Blade went on.
The second hour covered the findings in Cheerick and again, characters died, people who had been made to live and breathe during the earlier parts of the documentary. The Wyvern video from the fall of the science section was particularly vivid. The amazing biological defenses of the planet were detailed along with their utility to humanity, once they were fully understood. It ended with the return to earth, startling the mission controllers with a giant crabpus mounted on the hypercavitation activator.
The third hour was the scramble to head to the lost colony. The documentary caught, vividly, the boredom of the long transit. But the viewers quickly got caught up in the battles around the unnamed stars. Captain Blankemeier, one of the central characters, was given a short bit where he referenced ‘battling on the arms of Orion.’ One of the internal cameras on the ship caught a blast of plasma ripping through the crew quarters, fortunately vacant. More caught lasers and mass drivers ripping the ship until she was virtually airless but still fought on. Wyvern video of Eric capturing the flagship was missing, so CGI and overlay techniques were used to simulate it. If anything, they looked better. The Mree “sentient” controller of the task force brought a cry of surprise from the Russian, who bent forward to look closer.
The last hour closed with video of the shattered Blade I in space then a discussion of the aid of the Hexosehr and finally a shot of the built-from-scratch Blade II setting down in Area 51, it’s alternate base.
“Admiral Blankemeier,” the Chinese general said when the videos were finished. “It is amazing you are alive.”
“It’s amazing any of us survived,” Blankemeier replied.
“Yes, but the one that I want to meet is, how is it? Two-Gun Berg,” the Indian said, grinning. “What a warrior! Especially for an enlisted man. I am glad to see that you made him an officer.”
And thus we uncover the weakness of the Indians, Weaver thought with a sigh. They just could not seem to get over the whole caste thing. And if you considered large portions of your population as sub-par, the intellectual value of that portion was lost. Who knew how many Einsteins and Booker T. Washingtons might exist among the Untouchables, who were still relegated to not much more than garbage collection. If India had one overriding weakness, it was the legacy of caste.
“So what is next?” the Chinese delegate asked. “You say that we are going to get access to these Hexosehr? In two years? That is too much time. We need their technology immediately!”
“Actually, the Hexosehr are in the process of colonizing Runner’s World,” the President replied. “We established gates to get them there. Their ships won’t arrive for a bit under two years. But we were able to move some of their fabricators through and, of course, their expertise. We are liaisoning with them now about how to portion out their personnel. They’ve made a study of our various societies and countries and are making many of their own decisions. They are an independent group, allied but with their own… how was you put it? Ah, their own ‘sovereignty’. What technology goes to what groups is up to them. But, yes, you’re going to get access to it.”
“And the Blade?” the Russian asked.
“No,” the President replied. “We’ve considered the possibility of putting observers onboard or even a mixed crew. Subsequent to mutual defense treaties, we may consider it further. But it is an Alliance ship. The British have, thus far, declined to offer personnel but there is an Adar onboard and shortly Hexosehr. Until things change, politically, however, we’re not going to put in Russian, Chinese or Indian crewpeople or observers. As to studying the drive, it’s always been a toss-up between studying it and using it. For the time being, again, we’re going to use it and study it as we can. Even the Hexosehr, after examining it intensively during the rebuild, admitted that they could not understand it. It violated several of their theories of faster than light travel, which were rather mature and now have to be rethought. So if we cannot figure it out, meaning the US, and the British cannot figure it out and the Adar cannot figure it out and the Hexosehr cannot figure it out, I strongly doubt that the Chinese or Russians, the ability of their scientists being noted, can do any better. Honestly, do you?”
“We demand observers,” the Russian said. “The ship should be the property of all the world, not just one hegemonic government! It should be an international crew under a commander chosen by the United Nations!”
“Well, let’s see,” the President replied, grinning. “The Adar trusted us, being in contact with all of you, with the black box. We spent twenty billion dollars rebuilding a nuclear submarine and turning it into a space ship. And we took all the casualties finding the Cheerick, the Hexosehr and the Dreen. So you’ll understand me if I try not to scoff at your demand. And, frankly, we’re going to completely ignore the UN in our preparations for the Dreen. I don’t see what use a bunch of kleptocrats and tyrants are going to be to us.”
“The Hexosehr will be sending a liaison and technical group to each of the countries which joins the coalition,” the National Security Advisor said, diplomatically. “They will require appropriate quarters, which means suited to their physiology especially since they use a slightly different atmosphere. They will also require logistical support including food. Some Adar foods are mutually compatible. Most major earth governments will get a Hexosehr ambassador. Those that join the coalition are the only ones that will be getting technical support. That is the Hexosehr’s position, not ours.”
“And this coalition?” the Russian said, furiously. “I suppose that the Americans they will be the top dog, yes?”
“Each country will be expected to produce their own ships, fleets,” the National Security Advisor replied. “Higher command structure will be a matter of negotiations. But American fleets will never be under the command of others, not even the British. We’re more willing to consider higher command by Adar or Hexosehr. But only willing to consider it. The US has a history of winning battles that cannot be matched by any country in this room.”
“And losing wars,” the Russian scoffed. “For that matter, who took Berlin?”
Just because Patton was ordered to remain in place, Weaver thought. But he managed to hold his tongue.
“It’s not a matter for argument,” the President said, clearly thinking much the same thing. “The American public is never going to accept a Chinese admiral over an American fleet. But that is for later. The completed documentaries and the reams and reams of video and sensor data they were derived from is assembled for each of you. As are the preliminary methods for getting in contact with the Hexosehr. We request that we be given one week before we release the information.”
“I am not in a position to promise that,” the Chinese general said. “This meeting was only to be on the subject of the space ship you have, this Vorpal Blade. This new information will have to be considered by my government. We may request an extension of the information being released.”
“We have indications that it’s not going to be long before our news media gets to the bottom of what’s going on,” the President said. “Or at least some of it. So…consider fast.”
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