Dreadnought Project Conference Room,
Comdur Fleet Base
Michael’s head hurt.
When he was not having the stuffing kicked out of him in the sims, he sat in interminable meetings like this one, called to work out how best to meet Fleet’s demands that the Block 1 dreadnoughts carry an extra five crew members. He wondered about Fleet’s priorities sometimes: all this management effort over such a trivial matter just to placate the antidreadnought faction. It was nuts. But at least this meeting-unlike far too many he had been forced to attend-promised a result without spawning working groups, assessment teams, cross-functional impact studies, and all the other bureaucratic paraphernalia so loved by Fleet staffers.
The meeting’s chair, Commander Andraschi, a systems engineering commander Michael did not know well, had the floor; thankfully she was summing up. “We’re agreed. We can ask for extra personnel all we like, but if Fleet cannot supply them, we’re wasting our time. That leaves us with landers. The marines were least affected by Comdur, so we have plenty of them along with assault landers and their pilots. Adding a lander will give our dreadnoughts capabilities-limited, I know-that they would not otherwise have. A single heavy assault lander with command pilot and minimal crew takes the complement to fifteen.”
She turned to Michael. “This is your show. Can you live with that?”
“Can, sir,” Michael said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, and we have more than enough landers to go around.” It was true; more by luck than by good judgment, the planetary assault vessels carrying the Fed marine expeditionary force tasked with the invasion of the Hammer Worlds had been out in deepspace when the Hammers attacked Comdur. An idea hit him. “Hang on a minute, sir. If I’m to carry one, why not a Block 6 lander? They’re pinchspace jump-capable. And that,” he added, eyes lighting up, “is a capability well worth having.”
Andraschi glanced at everyone in turn. “Anybody see a problem with that? No? Me neither. A lander’s a lander’s a lander, after all, and I think the admiral will agree. If she does, I can’t see Fleet arguing the point. Right, enough talk,” she said firmly. “Decision made. The final report will recommend a Block 6 lander with a crew of five.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, pleased with the win, even if it was a small one.
“Right, we’re done here, I think. We all have more than enough to be getting on with.”
While the meeting broke up in a welter of noise, Michael’s neuronics pinged. He accepted the call. It was the personnel office.
“Lieutenant Helfort, sir, Warrant Officer Morriset, Personnel. I thought you’d like to know that your crew has arrived. We’ve just finished processing them. They’ll be ready for you in Conference-3 in five minutes, if that’s okay.”
“Thanks. I’ll meet them there.”
“No worries, sir.”
After he dropped the call, Michael forced air into lungs tight with anticipation. All of a sudden things were turning serious. Within a matter of weeks, he would be a full-blown captain in command, responsible for taking a warship and its crew into action against the Hammers and-far more important-for bringing them back alive.
Taking another deep breath, he set off for Conference-3, his spirits rising with every step. It would be good to be part of a team again, and even better, he would have Chief Petty Officer Matti Bienefelt as his coxswain. If the world’s largest spacer could not keep him-and Tufayl-on the straight and narrow, nobody could. After all he and Bienefelt had been through together-in DLS-387, in Eridani, in Adamant when they captured the Hammer cruisers McMullins and Providence Sound along with their precious outfits of antimatter warheads-it would be good to have her back onboard.
His executive officer was another matter. Junior Lieutenant Jayla Ferreira, barely months out of Space Fleet College, was one of the lucky few able to return to active duty after her first ship, the light cruiser Sailfish, was badly damaged at the Battle of Comdur. He hoped she was half the spacer Matti Bienefelt was.
“Attention on deck!” his new executive officer barked when Michael entered the room, and the ship’s company of Tufayl leaped to their feet, snapping to attention. “Dreadnought Tufayl all present and accounted for, sir,” she said, hand to forehead in an impeccable salute.
“Thank you. Take your seats, everyone.” Michael paused until the crew of Tufayl settled down. Nine faces stared back at him. Matti Bienefelt he knew, of course; as for the rest, all volunteers, he knew only what their service records told him. On paper, they appeared solid-Jaruzelska’s ruthless selection process had seen to that-but only time would tell how good they really were.
“Right, I’ll be as quick as I can,” Michael said. “Welcome. Tufayl is a special ship, the first of a special squadron. I need a special crew, and you’re that crew. Tufayl is the toughest ship in the Fleet, and she’s tough for a reason. It’s tough because we will get the missions other ships cannot carry out. Tufayl is tough for another reason. Those Hammer bastards beat the crap out of us at Comdur, no doubt about it”-an angry rumble filled the room, forcing Michael to raise his voice-“but now it’s our turn. It won’t be easy, and it sure as hell won’t be safe, but it’ll be the dreadnoughts that turn this war around, and you’ll be there every step of the way.”
Michael waited until the noise died away. “Finally, you and me. I may be the youngest skipper in the Fleet, but I do have some experience in that regard.” He stopped to let the sudden burst of laughter run its course. “But I cannot get this done without you,” he continued, “without all of you. I am here for you, any time of the day or night. Of course,” he said, flicking a quick look at Ferreira, “give the executive officer a chance to fix things first”-another burst of laughter-“but if she can’t, I’m here.”
“I’ll be knocking, sir. You can count on it. You owe me a beer, for one thing,” a voice said in a poor but passably menacing imitation of a Hammer accent.
Michael laughed. “Chief Petty Officer Bienefelt! You’ll have to do better than that. And yes, I owe you a beer. I hadn’t forgotten. Okay, okay, settle down. I’d also like to say that unlike other heavy cruisers-sorry, dreadnoughts-you all have unrestricted access to Prime. I think you’ll like her, though she prefers to be called Mother, so that’s what I suggest you do. I’ve always believed the primary AI to be the closest thing a warship has to a soul, so I’d encourage you to talk to her. She’s been around awhile, so there’s not a lot she hasn’t seen. Bit like Chief Bienefelt, I’d have to say.”
“Bet she’s prettier,” said an anonymous voice. Chief Chua, the senior spacer responsible for Tufayl’s main propulsion, Michael decided while he waited for the laughter to die down.
“Okay, okay. One last thing, and this is probably the only difficult thing I have to say to you.”
He forced himself to breathe properly; he had not been looking forward to this part of the welcome talk.
“Some people think,” he continued, “that dreadnoughts are the spawn of the devil. If you don’t know that already, you soon will. You can expect people to give you a hard time, maybe even a very hard time, just because you’ve been posted to Tufayl. All I can ask you is to deal with it the best way you can, and please note that does not mean beating the crap out of anyone dumb enough to say they don’t approve of us. Right, I’m done here. Once again, welcome aboard. XO, carry on please.”
“Sir! Attention on deck!” Ferreira called while Michael left.