He didn’t know just what was in those boxes, but he was sure there was a reason why the Admiralty was spending several million crowns on a drive upgrade. And in any event, they’d been remarkably cagey about the extra control software for them. Boxes, hooked into the drive, which also hooked into the new, high-bandwidth linkup to the tactical network: something smelled.
All this and more was on his mind as he took the express elevator up to the conference suite in officer country. The door to Room D was open, waiting for him. Most of the other senior officers were already there. Ilya Murametz, the ship’s executive officer, Lieutenant Helsingus from fire control, the usual battle operations team, Vulpis from Relativity … he was probably last, but for the Captain, by reason of having come farthest. “Ilya. What’s going on?”
Ilya glanced at him. “The Captain is with the Admiral. When he arrives he will make an announcement,” he said. “I don’t know anything about it except that it’s nothing specific.” Krupkin breathed a silent sight of relief; “nothing specific” meant that it wasn’t about the running of the ship. Nobody was going to be hauled over the coals today. Not that Captain Mirsky was a martinet by the standards of the New Republican Navy, but he could be merciless if he thought someone was asleep at the switch or not doing his job properly.
Suddenly there was a change of atmosphere in the room. Everyone turned to face the doorway: conversations stopped, and officers came to attention. Captain Mirsky stood for a long moment, surveying his staff. Evidently what he saw gratified him; when he spoke his first words were, “Gentlemen, please be seated.” He walked to the head of the table and laid down a thick folder in front of his chair.
“It is now 1130. The door to this room is shut, and will remain shut, barring emergencies, until 1200. I am authorized to inform you that we are now under battle orders. I am not privy to the political discussions behind our orders, but I am informed by Admiral Kurtz’s staff that it appears likely that no resolution of the crisis short of war is possible; accordingly, we have been ordered to proceed as part of Task Group One to Rochard’s World, by way of Battle Plan Omega Green Horizon.” Now he pulled his chair out and sat down. “Are there any questions about the background before I go into our specific orders?” he asked.
Lieutenant Marek raised a hand. “Sir, do we know anything about the aggressor? It seems to me that the censor’s office has been more than usually diligent.”
Captain Mirsky’s cheek twitched. “A good question.” Krupkin glanced at the lieutenant; a young hotshot in TacOps, who’d joined the ship less than six months ago. “A good question deserves a good answer.
Unfortunately, I can’t give you one because nobody has seen fit to tell me. So, Lieutenant. How do you think our armed forces stack up, in a worst-possible-case situation?” Lieutenant Marek gulped; he hadn’t been on board long enough to have figured out the Captain’s Socratic style of testing his subordinates’ knowledge — a holdover from Mirsky’s two tours as a professor in the Naval Staff Academy. “Against whom, sir? If it was just a matter of suppressing a local rebellion, there wouldn’t be any problem at all. But Rochard’s World had a picket force consisting of a destroyer plus point defenses, and they’d be as good as us at suppression. So they wouldn’t be sending us if that was enough to deal with the situation. There must be an active enemy who has already stopped the local picket force intervening.”
“An accurate summary.” Captain Mirsky smiled humorlessly. “One that holds true whatever we face.
Unfortunately, you now know as much as I do, but for one thing: apparently the destroyer Sakhalin was eaten. I don’t know if this is metaphor or literal truth, but it appears that nobody knows who this Festival is, or what they are capable of, or whether the destroyer gave them indigestion. Let us not forget our oath of allegiance to the Emperor and the Republic; whatever they choose to do, we are sworn to be their right arm. If they decide to strike at an enemy, well, let us strike hard. Meanwhile, let us assume the worst. What if the enemy has cornucopia machines?”
Marek looked puzzled. “Couldn’t it go either way, sir? On the one hand, they have tools that let them build lots of weapons quickly without getting their hands dirty. But on the other hand, if they’re not used to working, isn’t there a good chance that they’re moral degenerates? The ability to manufacture doesn’t confer victory automatically, if the people who have it are weakened and corrupted by their decadent robot-supported lifestyle. How can they possibly have the traditions and Esprit of an honorable military force?”
“That remains to be seen,” the Captain said cryptically. “For the time being, I prefer to assume the worst.
And the worst case is that the enemy has cornucopia machines, and is not decadent and cowardly.” Marek shook his head slightly.
“You have a question?” asked Mirsky.
“Uh. I thought—” Marek looked worried. “Is that possible?”
“Anything is possible,” the Captain said, heavily. “And if we plan for the worst, with luck all our surprises will be favorable.” He glanced away from the naive Lieutenant. “Next.” Krupkin, who as an engineer had his own opinion about the advisability of banning the use of technologies for social reasons, nodded to himself. While Mirsky wouldn’t say so in public, he had a very good idea what the Captain was thinking— having a decadent robot-supported lifestyle doesn’t preclude having military traditions. In fact, it may give them more time to focus on the essentials.
The Captain continued to poll his officers, publicly querying the readiness of their posts.
“—Engineering status. Commander Krupkin?”
Krupkin stifled a grunt of annoyance. “The shipyard contractor is still applying the upgrade patches to our baseline compensators. I am awaiting a precise hand-off estimate, but as of this morning, we expected three more shifts to complete the modifications, and another shift to test them. I have no complaints about his efficiency: he’s as good as anyone I’ve ever worked with, a real virtuoso. Other than that, the secondary compensator set — which is not being upgraded — is fully operational. We are moving at full speed, but will not have full redundancy and the new upgrade modifications ready for another four to five days — at a minimum.”
“I see.” The Captain made a note on his blotter. He looked back at the engineer: a piercing blue-eyed stare that would have turned a less experienced officer into a nervous wreck. “Can the modifications be expedited? We will be passing into foreign space-time in two days; thereafter, we must anticipate the presence of enemy minelayers and warships along our route.”
“Um — probably, sir. Unfortunately, the upgrades aren’t straightforward enough for our routine engineering staff. Springfield is a specialist, and he is exerting himself fully. I believe that we might be able to speed things up, but at the risk of errors creeping in because of fatigue. If I can use an analogy, it’s like a master surgeon performing an operation. Extra pairs of hands simply get in the way, and you can’t prop a surgeon up for days on end and expect his work to remain acceptable. I think we might be able to shave a day or two off the four-to-five-day estimate, but no more.”
“I see.” Captain Mirsky glanced at Murametz significantly. “But we are still able to move and fight, and the new black-box system is already integrated.” He nodded. “Helsingus, how is TacOps?”
“I’ve been running daily exercises predicated on a standard fleet aggressor profile for the past week, sir, using the standard models Admiralty shipped us. We could do with a bit longer, but I think the boys have generally got the right idea. Barring any major surprises in enemy tactical doctrine, we’re ready to deal with them, whoever they are, one-on-one.”