Seventeen
April 2253

Halifax

It was fitting that a planet with a heavy surplus of metal ores would become a major shipbuilding center, and that is precisely what had happened on Halifax, admitted into the Confederacy only two years earlier.  The massive orbital graving dock had already turned out both commercial freighters and liners, three of the Navy’s cruisers and one frigate.  But the task before Graving Dock Three and its crew of construction technicians, engineers, and architects was of a different order entirely. 

They had the plans for the Arcadia, which was to be the first of the massive Dreadnought class ships, and only the four-kilometer Graving Dock Three was large enough to accommodate it.  Now, the task of translating the plans into a real fighting ship was underway.

Dr. Arnold Emory was on hand to supervise the construction, having been sped to Halifax from Earth aboard a Navy transport.  He looked now through a view port out to where pressure-suited techs were supervising construction droids in the laying of the framework for an almost two-kilometer mass tunnel.  Within the week, construction was set to begin on another four-kilometer graving dock, which would contain the second One Thousand series ship, the Ranger.

In Emory’s pocket was the printout of a hyperphone message he had personally received from Rear Admiral Gauss:

TO: DR EMORY

RE: ARCADIA/ONE THOUSAND PROJECT:

FAST IS GOOD.  FASTER IS BETTER.

GAUSS

Doctor Emory had seen the news.  The Arcadia was now officially a rush project.

Tarbos

The Confederate Marines, until recently, had remained a small and elite force of specialists.  With the invasion and occupation of New Albion and the narrowly averted occupation of Fortune, that was rapidly changing.

Camp Instruction was a large, sprawling complex of buildings and field training areas in the hills west of Mountain View.  Ten thousand new Marines from across the Confederacy were now in training in the Basic and Advanced Combat schools; a select few were battering their way through the brutally rugged Force Recon School. 

As was usual for large gatherings of troops throughout humanity’s history, rumors were rampant throughout Camp Instruction, but most of them centered on one topic:  New Albion.

The rumors were amplified by the arrival of a chartered OWME passenger liner, the Santa Maria, in Tarbos orbit.  Typical of the rumor mills was the barracks bay of First Platoon, Charlie Company, 3^rd Marine Regiment.

“Hey, check it out, guys.”  Lance Corporal Gerald Rosenberg pointed to his collar as he burst into the squad bay.  He wore his new rank with pride; promoted a good six weeks ahead of his Advanced Infantry class, he was a shoe-in for a fire team leader slot when his company deployed. 

Rosenberg’s friends in Second Squad gathered around to admire the newly minted Lance Corporal.  “You the man,” one of them commented.

“Next stop, New Albion,” Rosenberg grinned.  He pantomimed firing an issue M-22 carbine.  “Time for First Platoon to get some.”

His friends responded with a shout traditional to Marines since time immemorial:

“Uuuuh-rah!”

Tarbos

For only the second time since the war started, the carrier Mountain View was easing into the Fleet space dock at the capital.  Admiral Gauss stood on the Bridge, trying to stay out of the way as the carrier’s crew went through the docking evolution.

“We’re looking at two weeks for repairs, re-arming and provisioning.” Captain Jensen was at the Admiral’s side, as always.  He was examining data readouts on a terminal at an unoccupied station.  “The good news, Admiral, is that the Orleans will be repaired and ready to put to space again in eighteen days.  That’s four more days at Tarbos, but we can take the field again with the battle cruiser.”

“That’s good.”  Gauss frowned at the main screen, where the display showed the interior of the huge docking berth.  He stepped to the Signals station.  “Signal all ship commanders to authorize as much leave as they can consistent with conducting repairs and rearming.  I want all ship commanders to assemble here on the flagship at nineteen tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” the Petty Officer at the Signals station replied, and immediately began sending the word out to the Task Group ships, just now settling into their own docking berths.

The conference was held over dinner in the Mountain View’s spacious Wardroom.  At Admiral Gauss’ orders, each ship’s Captain, XO and senior Master Chief attended.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Admiral announced when the group was assembled, dress white uniform jackets sparkling in the bright lights of the carrier’s Wardroom.  He stood up and raised his glass.  “We have an honored guest with us tonight.  Senator, would you stand up, please?”

All eyes turned to the man in the dark civilian suit and tie.  The Admiral continued: “Officers of Task Group One, this is one of the people who is fighting so hard in the halls of our esteemed Congress to make sure we have beans and bullets for these expensive boats of ours.  Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Michael Crider of Forest.”

Mike stood up slowly, his wineglass in his hand.  He took a moment to look at the faces turned expectantly towards him.  They were hard, professional faces, strangely calm, composed and confident.  Most of the assembled company had some gray hair; Mike remembered that most of them, as senior officers in the Confederacy’s new Navy, had originally come from one of Earth’s various armed forces, as Admiral Gauss and his aide had come from the United States Air Force.

How different they are than the faces I see in Congress, he thought.  Those faces would be flustered, blustering, calculating and thinking three steps ahead to their next angle.  They wouldn’t be waiting to listen to what I had to say, as these are; they’d be thinking ahead to what they wanted to say.  These people – they’ve seen the elephant.  That’s the difference.  Suddenly it occurred to Mike where he’d seen such expressions before, many years earlier:  They look just like Dad and his old scout buddies when they were talking about the Grugell invasion back on Forest. 

An irrelevant feeling of unworthiness swept over him at the thought of his own presence in such company.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Confederate Navy,” he began, somewhat awkwardly.  He gave himself a mental shake.

“I came here tonight to look for myself on the faces of the people who are fighting this war,” he announced.  “I came to congratulate you on the job you all have done so far, and to grieve with all of you for the troops we’ve lost.

“But most of all, I’ve come bearing some good news.  Last month, the Senate managed to spring loose the Appropriations bill that authorizes the construction of two ships of a new class.  They have officially been called the One Thousand series while in development, but the engineer in charge of the design team has called them the Dreadnought class, and the first ship – which is already under construction – will be called the Arcadia.

“I won’t try to explain the details of the Arcadia’s size, design or armaments; I’ll leave that to people who understand such things better than I.”  A few chuckles went around the room.  “Let it suffice to say that they’re damned impressive.”

His instincts as a well-trained politician were re-asserting themselves now; he paused a moment for effect.

“It will be a year or more before the Arcadia is ready for space trials.  I’m told that it will be three months more after that before the second ship in the series, the Ranger, is also ready.  I’m sure Admiral Gauss, and all of you, will make good use of the additional firepower when the time comes.  Until then,” he raised his glass, “I know you’ll stay the course.  You’ve already made wonderful use of the materials we’ve provided you, you’ve done incredible things with limited resources, and I know you’ll do more.  I salute you all.  You’re on the sharp end of the stick, and the rest of the Confederacy is forever in your debt.”

A conservative smatter of applause went around the room, and then stewards began bringing in the salads.

“Well said, Senator,” Admiral Gauss commented quietly.

“Thanks.  You know, Admiral, while I’m on board…”

Gauss grinned, a forkful of lettuce poised at his mouth.  “I’ve arranged for your sister to be free for the evening, Senator.  She’ll be in the Terminal lounge waiting for you when we’re done here.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Mike replied, somewhat surprised.  He hadn’t expected the notoriously hard-bitten Admiral to be that thoughtful.

Dinner was excellent.  Three hours later, a trifle woozy from three glasses of wine, Senator Crider shook Admiral Gauss’ hand and took his leave, departing the Mountain View through the docking umbilical and proceeding to the lounge in the dock’s Main Terminal, to there find his sister waiting for him.

After exchanging hugs, Andrea Crider surprised her brother by pulling a tiny holo-cube out of the pocket of her Navy green uniform jacket.  “Here,” she explained, “The folks sent me this a few weeks ago.”

Mike pressed the tiny blue contact-spot on the cube, and a three-dimensional image of his parents appeared in mid-air.

“Dad thought it was pretty neat,” Andrea explained.  “They had it done down in Settlement a few months back.  Dad says he’s sending you one, too – I guess you haven’t got it yet?”

“The war’s got mail pretty screwed up,” Mike replied.  “Mail going out to the Fleet has priority, and that’s as it should be.”

Mike looked closely at the holo, realizing after a moment that he was homesick.  The images of his indefatigably cheerful mother, who his sister resembled so acutely, and his thin, unsmiling father with his rock-hard arms folded stiffly across his chest, all made him realize how much he’d like to be pursuing rocs out on the fern prairies of Forest with the old pioneer.

“Dad says the rocs are thinning out some, but the bosettes up on the high benches above the cabin are as thick as rats,” Andrea said, remembering the short, terse note that had accompanied the holo, “oh, and he went out for six weeks hunting loggers with that little Russian fellow who was at the house that one time.”

“I bet they had a rare time,” Mike said softly.  “Here’s Dad in his sixties, and he’s still out hunting the biggest, meanest things around.”

“He’s not happy unless there’s something big to take on,” Andrea laughed.  “I guess that’s the Crider family curse, isn’t it?”

“It must be.  Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.”  Mike nodded at the silver oak leaves of a full Commander that now graced his sister’s collar.

“I seem to have gotten somebody’s attention,” she laughed.  “Squashing a Grugell flagship or two will do that for you.  I’m now the Squadron Commander, to boot.  There’s nothing like a promotion, a command and a Distinguished Flying Cross to make your day.  So, what about you, big brother?  What monsters have you been hunting down lately?”

“Finding a few dollars for the Fleet,” he replied.  “We all have our monsters to deal with.  Yours fly in silver starships; mine wear suits and rant and rave about all the money the Navy needs for ships and crews.  Yes, we Criders really do have our share of monsters to fight.” “Don’t I know it,” replied the fighter pilot with three kills to her credit.

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.