maybe another twelve hours,” Major Frederick says. “The puddle jumpers are drop-and-go right now to rotate people in and out from the terraformers. No idea when we’ll get the next decent window in this frozen shit soup.”
“Let’s get as many people shuffled through as possible,” Sergeant Fallon says. “And any orbital business we have, best get it done in the next half day or so.”
There’s a holographic display on the wall that currently displays a slowly rotating sphere representing New Svalbard, the sole moon of Fomalhaut c, third planet in the vast and very empty Fomalhaut system. There are sixty-four evenly spaced icons dotting both hemispheres, each of them a state-of-the-art multibillion-dollar terraforming station, powerful fusion reactors with giant atmospheric exchange units attached. Each of them has a garrison platoon of Homeworld Defense troops assigned to it—partially for security reasons and partially because New Longyearbyen doesn’t have the infrastructure to support two battalions of soldiers. The terraforming stations have energy and space in abundance, but they are extremely isolated and don’t have much in the way of recreational opportunities, so Sergeant Fallon has set up a rotation schedule, which the harsh New Svalbard climate screws up on a regular basis.
“I’m passing along a request from Regulus Actual,” Colonel Campbell says. “The task force skippers want to have a meeting with all the COs to discuss our plans for getting back into the fight.”
“Back into the fight? I could have sworn we’re right in the middle of it,” I say.
“It’s no secret that our supply situation isn’t great. We sure as hell don’t have the resources to winter in this place, let alone spend the next year or two here and wait for the Lankies to come to us. Without a fleet yard for maintenance, half our hulls will be out of commission before too long anyway. Especially those SRA relics. Those people don’t put much emphasis on scheduled service intervals in ideal conditions. I don’t feel like towing one of those overarmed garbage scows to the Alcubierre chute and then back to Earth.”
“All the COs?” Major Frederick asks. “Theirs and ours?”
“Everyone,” Colonel Campbell replies. “Ground commanders, fleet skippers, SRA brass, and our little gang of plucky mutineers.”
“Festive,” I mutter. “We’re like a tiny, fucked-up United Nations now.”
“We can pass a unanimous resolution against Lanky invasion,” Sergeant Fallon says wryly. “Problem solved.”
Strategy meetings are usually hair-pulling affairs just across NAC service branches. The idea of a multibranch, multinational discussion between fleet capital ship commanders, ground pounders, rebellious Earthside garrison troops, and our equivalents from the bloc we’ve been at war with until just a month ago doesn’t fill me with glowing confidence of success. We’ll do well not to light off a localized World War V right here in orbit once everyone figures out just how many pairs of boots we have competing for just how few resources. We have water and reactor fuel to keep everyone running indefinitely, but there are no calories in ice and snow, and the hydroponic farms on the surface of New Svalbard are barely sufficient to feed the civvies, much less five thousand combat troops and another two thousand fleet personnel.
“Well, let’s schedule it,” the major says. “It’s not like we have much else to do right now.”
“But that better be a conference link in the ops center. No way I’m walking into a room with all those people sitting around one big table, spirit of cooperation or not,” Sergeant Fallon says. She leans back in her chair and stretches her biological leg with a grimace. “’Cause I don’t know about you people, but I am fucking sick and tired of this light indoor duty. I still don’t know what exactly I’m good for, but it ain’t answering comms requests and shuffling
“Let’s get as many people shuffled through as possible,” Sergeant Fallon says. “And any orbital business we have, best get it done in the next half day or so.”
There’s a holographic display on the wall that currently displays a slowly rotating sphere representing New Svalbard, the sole moon of Fomalhaut c, third planet in the vast and very empty Fomalhaut system. There are sixty-four evenly spaced icons dotting both hemispheres, each of them a state-of-the-art multibillion-dollar terraforming station, powerful fusion reactors with giant atmospheric exchange units attached. Each of them has a garrison platoon of Homeworld Defense troops assigned to it—partially for security reasons and partially because New Longyearbyen doesn’t have the infrastructure to support two battalions of soldiers. The terraforming stations have energy and space in abundance, but they are extremely isolated and don’t have much in the way of recreational opportunities, so Sergeant Fallon has set up a rotation schedule, which the harsh New Svalbard climate screws up on a regular basis.
“I’m passing along a request from Regulus Actual,” Colonel Campbell says. “The task force skippers want to have a meeting with all the COs to discuss our plans for getting back into the fight.”
“Back into the fight? I could have sworn we’re right in the middle of it,” I say.
“It’s no secret that our supply situation isn’t great. We sure as hell don’t have the resources to winter in this place, let alone spend the next year or two here and wait for the Lankies to come to us. Without a fleet yard for maintenance, half our hulls will be out of commission before too long anyway. Especially those SRA relics. Those people don’t put much emphasis on scheduled service intervals in ideal conditions. I don’t feel like towing one of those overarmed garbage scows to the Alcubierre chute and then back to Earth.”
“All the COs?” Major Frederick asks. “Theirs and ours?”
“Everyone,” Colonel Campbell replies. “Ground commanders, fleet skippers, SRA brass, and our little gang of plucky mutineers.”
“Festive,” I mutter. “We’re like a tiny, fucked-up United Nations now.”
“We can pass a unanimous resolution against Lanky invasion,” Sergeant Fallon says wryly. “Problem solved.”
Strategy meetings are usually hair-pulling affairs just across NAC service branches. The idea of a multibranch, multinational discussion between fleet capital ship commanders, ground pounders, rebellious Earthside garrison troops, and our equivalents from the bloc we’ve been at war with until just a month ago doesn’t fill me with glowing confidence of success. We’ll do well not to light off a localized World War V right here in orbit once everyone figures out just how many pairs of boots we have competing for just how few resources. We have water and reactor fuel to keep everyone running indefinitely, but there are no calories in ice and snow, and the hydroponic farms on the surface of New Svalbard are barely sufficient to feed the civvies, much less five thousand combat troops and another two thousand fleet personnel.
“Well, let’s schedule it,” the major says. “It’s not like we have much else to do right now.”
“But that better be a conference link in the ops center. No way I’m walking into a room with all those people sitting around one big table, spirit of cooperation or not,” Sergeant Fallon says. She leans back in her chair and stretches her biological leg with a grimace. “’Cause I don’t know about you people, but I am fucking sick and tired of this light indoor duty. I still don’t know what exactly I’m good for, but it ain’t answering comms requests and shuffling
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