Plague Wars 06: Comes the Destroyer (7 page)

Rae leaned over it. “Biologically gestated ferrocrystal composite matrix. Like the penetrator in a ground tank’s sabot round. It’s what makes the hypers so deadly, along with their speed. Simple, elegant, reusable. I could have my ship make these if it were necessary, though the request list for Meme-grown materials is always several hundred times longer than what I can actually do.”

Absen waved a hand. “We can manufacture our own ferrocrystal well enough using nanotech vat assembly. We’ll probably never build similar projectiles, though. If we want cheap bullets, we’ll use railgun spheres. If we pay the cost to make a missile with a fusion engine and a guidance system, we’re going to stick a cheap fusion warhead with a bomb-pumped beam system on it. Can’t put a missile in a railgun; those things generate thousands of Gs at launch, and the components can’t take it.”

“Meme biotechnology is inherently different,” Rae agreed. “They use what works best for them. This works for us. They do use machines, you know. Some.”

“Really?” Absen sat down again, looking interested.

“They create what they call Purelings, which are blank cloned bodies of subject races blended with new Meme mitoses. These are then downloaded with carefully selected skill sets and memories. Basically they are soldier-slaves, janissaries completely loyal to the Empire. They can wear armor or vacuum suits and use mechanical weapons manufactured on subject worlds, or even aboard ship. We might see some during this attack.”

“Really?” he repeated, now completely focused on this unexpected military topic.

“Yes. It’s been in the reports your intel people are debriefing me for. Haven’t you been reading them?”

“Not closely enough, I guess. I remember something about enemy ground troops. That’s why we have Marines. I’d love to hear more details.”

Rae rubbed her forehead. “You can get all that from your staff. Really, there are whole sub-reports on likely enemy close-combat forces. I think our time here would be better spent on other things.”

“True enough.” Absen was long used to prioritizing his work, leaving lower-level items to his staff. If he tried to do it all he would never sleep or eat.

Rae finished her stogie and ground out the butt in the ashtray, using the pause in the conversation to change subjects. “Next world-shattering topic?”

Absen chuckled as he reached for a tablet, tapping an icon to bring up his notes. “I do have several potential EarthFleet issues I want to talk about. The Ceres-Callisto shipyards and bases, and the uses of the moons of Mars, as well as the courses of action the Red Team has come up with. Not to influence your brainstorming; just operational things, like how it’s going to get done. I know it’s not fair to keep going to your well too many times, but there are some things that only your ship and your technology can do right now, and the sooner we get started on those things, the farther along we will be when Earthtech catches up.”

“All right, let’s take them one by one.” Rae pulled a tablet of her own from a pocket, and they spent the next hour whacking weeds.

The world greeted this announcement with a great deal of skepticism, but a trickle of personnel from Earth wishing to join slowly grew into a flood, mostly in the junior and middle ranks.

This evident popularity caused an unintended side effect. The three power blocs approved the coordination of the world economy under a new body: the Combined Council of Earth. Absen found it interesting and actually heartening that they had seen EarthFleet as a potential political rival and had banded together to ensure their superiority. Frankly, he did not want to be the leader of a new sovereign entity. This new assembly would actually have more power at a higher level than he had hoped.

Specifically, their new Combined Council claimed to be the civilian supervision for EarthFleet, not only claiming sovereignty over resources but administration and strategy as well. They probably expected him to try to buck it and hand skeptics a victory, but he’d much rather take the high road and accept this newly declared state of affairs. Had he not, the naysayers would claim his unwillingness to listen to the Council proved that he was laying the groundwork for a military coup, rather than simply trying to create a unified and effective military force as he claimed.

Of course he immediately accepted their supervision, in principle at least, via a worldwide press release. Absen had been willing but never comfortable to be the dictator of a new quasi-nation. A more ambitious man might have turned them down, but he found himself in the enviable position of getting nearly everything he wanted.
And
, he mused,
what Markis and Nguyen apparently wanted: a more united Earth with the Free Communities first among equals.

He had the wit to wonder whether he had somehow been maneuvered into his actions in furtherance of their goals, but then abandoned that line of thought. Second-guessing himself had never been his habit, though the practice intruded into his thoughts more often lately.

Once it became clear that EarthFleet would accept civilian control its popularity soared even higher. Absen figured that couldn’t hurt him in what was likely to be a kind of constant negotiation with his new masters. While he was no master of politics, he had no doubt that he could identify those of his new service that were, and put them to use.

Absen’s next major meeting the following day included an eclectic mix of military personnel, scientists and engineers, all of mid-grade to senior rank. Despite many clamoring to be involved, the admiral ensured that only new actual EarthFleet personnel would attend. All had already served notice to their home nations that they would be renouncing their respective allegiances, and signed a “Citizen of Earth Declaration” he and Rae and his JAG had hammered out together.

Their number surprised him, and the percentage of those contacted: more than half had said yes right away, increasing every hour. He wasn’t sure exactly how the mix of EarthFleet and national personnel would integrate and function together in their jobs, but he had spent enough time in NATO to know it could work, with strong clear leadership.

Rae watched and listened invisibly from an adjacent room. Absen knew her cooperation would be vital, but did not want to muddy the waters by having her present.

Absen looked around the large meeting room and rapped it to order with a gavel shaped from a piece of
Orion
’s damaged armor. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my first staff meeting as Commander, EarthFleet.” He looked around the room and let that sink in. “Everyone here is either already head of his or her respective joint division, or is hereby appointed to that position. Non-EarthFleet personnel cannot be a J-head. I know that will be awkward for some of you. My staff has already contacted those above you and offered them their chance to join. If they do, they’ll still be transferred. That’s your reward for your early commitment. By the time you return to your offices, one way or the other they will be gone. Understood?”

Some nodded, some smiled, and some muttered or looked concerned. He let them get used to the idea for a moment before he continued. “We have a number of proposals on the table, from several teams. Let’s get right to it. Bill?”

An odd duck of a civilian stood up, round-headed, scrunch-faced and a bit slovenly. “Yes, uh, Admiral. I’m Bill Marshall, and I guess I’m acting chief of logistics. Guess I’ll have to get a uniform again, I’m a retired Army colonel, Engineer branch. Um…our proposal is a framework to structure our production based on the following factors…”

Absen valiantly strove to pay close attention, because he knew that for the next eight years, EarthFleet would not be doing much fighting. It would be organizing, training and equipping. He was competent enough at the first two, but the long pole in the tent was building the ships and weapons. For that, he needed someone better than he was.

When Marshall wound down, Absen asked, “Who should head this all up? Do you want the job?”

Marshall squinted by habit, as if he wore spectacles, though almost no one had need of such things anymore. “Um, sir, I could, but…”

“Go on.”

“I think we need a flag for this one. You’re effectively a one-star, though I suppose that might change, but if I know service politics – and I do – we need more stars. We need a four-star if we can get one, who can talk to all those officials on Earth on their level.”

“Do you have a suggestion?”

“Well…only one guy I know. Granted, he’d be another American, but…”

“Spit it out.”

“General Travis, sir. He ran Tiny Fortress. He’s got the credibility and the knowhow.”

Absen nodded. “Mister Marshall, we’ll try to find someone with some stars. Until then, you take control of the J4. I want to see production plans, top to bottom, in…shall we say two weeks?”

Marshall gulped, then nodded. “Might be rough, but we’ll shake something out by then.” He sat down.

“All right. Next?”

He became genuinely concerned when the big man changed into a pristine black kung fu gi, or whatever the outfit was called. Schaeffer’s background was all in the Japanese styles. He’d never seen Shan wear anything like that, nor even work out or spar with the other stewards. Perhaps he trained alone.

“Interesting look,” the redhead remarked as the Chinese stepped onto the mat and dropped into a stretching squat.

Shan ignored the comment, but the furrow in his brow did not go away.

“Something bothering you?” Schaeffer caught the eye of his fellow American steward, John Clayton, jerking his head imperceptibly.

He drifted over.

“Yes,” Shan replied, standing up straight, “but a demonstration is in order before I tell you.” He bowed formally to Schaeffer, put closed fist to palm in front of him, and then took up a relaxed sparring stance.

“Demonstration?” The American clapped palms to thighs and bowed, then settled low, weight balanced.

“Yes. I want you to kill me, if you can. If not, I will kill you.”

“Holy shit,” Clayton exclaimed from behind, reflexively extending his ferrocrystal claws. As full cyborgs, all stewards possessed a wide range of upgrades, beginning with close combat blades. Droplets of blood fell as the short knives extended from his fingertips. In moments he had healed, and stood crouching, ready to fight.

I knew it all along
, Schaeffer thought as he unsheathed his own blades. He transmitted the red alert code over his internal radio, summoning the third steward and some Marine backup to pull his nuts out of the fire. As he glanced toward the door, his telescopic right eye could see the lock turned shut. That would slow down any response.

Shan nodded, as if he knew what Schaeffer had done, then he glided forward with a quick leg sweep. The American lifted his knee just in time for his opponent’s foot to rise too fast, slamming into his solar plexus. He felt his laminated bones flex and groan, sensed his breath driven from his body and his internal oxygen kick in.

And then his lungs spasmed, in shock.

His cybernetic systems would dribble O2 into his bloodstream through an osmotic backup, enough to keep him alive, even conscious, but without his organic lungs his combat capability just dropped by half. With one blow he had been knocked out of the fight.

Schaeffer felt himself bounce off the back wall and slide to the floor onto his side. He tried to get to his feet while watching for Shan’s next attack, but the Chinese ignored him and turned toward Clayton.

Intense concentration showed on the other American’s face as he slid around to his left, throwing stiff-fingered jabs at the other man while circling toward Schaeffer. “Don’t –” he croaked, but did not finish the sentence before Shan took a deep, well-timed step between Clayton’s strikes and punched him in the chest. With his deceptively long reach, the combined power of his human nano-augmented muscles and his cybernetics knocked the other man across the room.

Following up swiftly, Shan grabbed the fallen American by his elbows and pinned the man’s arms behind him, lifting him off the ground like a small child. Holding him that way with one huge paw, he took a standard high-tensile zip-tie restrainer from a pocket and slapped it onto Clayton’s forearms, and then carried him across the room to drop him next to Schaeffer.

Then he squatted down to look his fellow stewards in the eyes, saying nothing.

“Better kill us now,” Schaeffer gasped, “because as soon as the reaction team shows up they’ll fry you. They won’t come unarmed.” His lung spasms began to relax, which meant they would start working again soon, he hoped.

“I do not intend to kill you.”

“But…”

“I just wanted you to defend yourself as well as you could, holding nothing back.” Shan held out his hand to Schaeffer.

The American took it, and Shan lifted him to his feet. “Why?” he managed to say.

“I wanted to demonstrate that I could have beaten you, even all three of you, at any time. If I had any nefarious intentions, you would not have been able to stop me. Steward Clayton,” Shan turned to the restrained man now glaring up at him from the floor, “I will be happy to release you if you can control yourself.”

“Yeah. All right.” Clayton did not look controlled.

At that moment the gym door burst open and armed Marines stormed in with weapons ready. Shan made no move, and Schaeffer transmitted instructions subvocally over his internal radio. “Stand down. False alarm. Steward business.” He shot a look at Steward Greco, who slapped the Marine in charge on his armored shoulder to get his attention, pointing back toward the door in emphasis.