Then there’s the coffee. It took a while to work out a variant of coffee that could be grown under the domes of Ganymede, but it’s been worth it. Any navy runs on reaction mass and coffee, and I’m not sure which is more important.
“So,” I say as I sit down with my officers, “anything else come up? Any last-minute problems?”
“Nothing new,” Lt. Greensport says, poking at scrambled eggs. “We’re still way behind in electronic warfare and countermeasures without the new updated packages. I’ve triple-checked the new downloads, but we can only do so much without new equipment, and we won’t be getting that right now. The Guardian-class is nearly obsolete anyway, so I figure they’re just going to replace the whole line instead.”
“Maybe, Shane, but the Guardian’s still got it where it counts,” Lt. Martin objects. “Look, I know all the stuff for the newer ones is designed for long-distance fencing with drones and lasers, but the Guardian is designed to get in there, close and personal. If we’re going to just give up and go all in with this long-range stuff on the newer models, why have Angel-class exo-frames at all? It’s just the next step to full-on autonomous warfare, I say.”
“We’ll make up the difference with training, dedication, and luck, right?” Lt. Ford says, only half-seriously.
“Yes, actually. And caution,” I answer. “If Saturn hits us, we’ll need to hold together through it. If they don’t hit us here, we’ll likely be on the way somewhere else in a big hurry. Either way, the best we can do is be ready for anything. The Saturnine are monsters, but there’s still a rational core in there somewhere. If we can make it hard enough for them, often enough, in enough places, they’ll have to rethink their aggression and find a new path.”
I hope that’s true, I tell myself, I really do.
“Well, it looks like we’re as ready as we’re going to get, based on the reports I read this morning. We’ll be at Ceres soon, and I’ll need all of you fit and rested. Anything else?”
There wasn’t, so I finished my breakfast, mostly silently, with only a little small talk. I’m not looking forward to my meeting with my squadron commander, Dashiell Bertrand. With turn-and-burn still hours away, it’s not going to be about upcoming tactics. That means he’s either got some issue with my flight’s reports, or there’s some kind of bureaucratic nonsense. Somehow, the Jovian Navy has more bean-counting to do than anyone else in the solar system. Even the autocratic Terrans don’t have the data-work we have to put up with. All the computers and AI should have made this go away and allowed us concentrate on doing our jobs, but no, there’s always more of it each year, it seems.
Get over this attitude, Michael. It could be important. There could be a technical issue that Engineering didn’t tell you for some reason…or maybe there’s tactical information or intelligence that Commander Rackham didn’t send to us…or…something.
No, it’s probably going to be more bureaucratic nonsense.
* * *
Aaaaand…it’s bureaucratic nonsense. We’ve spent the better part of an hour going over the reports for my men and their frames. How can it take that long? There’s four of us, and we’re up to date on training and maintenance. Still, where there’s a will there’s a way, and Commander Dashiell Bertrand will undertake his solemn duty to lecture anyone under him…which just happens to be me right now.
Dashiell Bertrand, call-sign “Data” (he so wanted it to be “Dash”) got the fast track to Flight Leader. He’s got the perfect hair, combed over the perfect regulation-blue features, and an immaculate uniform. You couldn’t ask for better posture from an android. He looks like a recruiting poster in his mess dress, and he knows which silverware to use at the right occasions. Bertrand comes from the right family—wealthy, influential, and with impressive service records. He knows all the right people, made all the right friends, and will, no doubt, rise to senior command, and then a career in politics.
What I cannot understand is why…why…WHY couldn’t he have stayed in headquarters and bothered everyone with memos from afar? Why fly with the Angels? Maybe he doesn’t think about this as a front-line combat posting—we’ve been at peace for a long time. Aside from some raiders in the Belt, our last real war was all the way back at Titan, and Rackham’s the only veteran we have of that. Does he want to prove himself in combat? If so, maybe I’ve misjudged him, and I’ll try to cut him some slack, however boring he is. Maybe he just likes flying; everyone in the wing loves taking an Angel out for a flight, and there’s nowhere else one can really do this. Whatever the case is, I wish he’d focus more on our combat readiness than bookkeeping, since it looks like we’ll have a real fight on our hands soon.
Wait, he just said something important!
“Lieutenant, I’ve requested an additional pilot for your Flight,” he says.
Great! I’ll need some time to integrate him…
“Unfortunately, none of the other units have pilots to spare at this time,” he continues. “Still, I have confirmation from Jupiter that we shall have a suitable replacement available upon our return.”
I nod politely. When—if—we return, it’ll be too late. Still, at least he tried.
“I trust, Lieutenant, that you’ve heard of the Nova Star Initiative?” he asks.
Wait…that rings a bell somewhere. Cool if pretentious name. There was something
