paperwork from behind a console.”
The strangeness of the day continues at 1800 hours Zulu, when we gather back in the ops center to participate in the conference link requested by the Regulus ’s commanding officer, Colonel Aguilar. The holoscreen at the end of the room divides itself into ever-smaller segments to accommodate the camera feeds of the conference parties as they join the talk. By the time everyone’s in the link, there are twelve different heads looking back at us from the holoscreen. There’s the commander of the SI garrison at Camp Frostbite, Lieutenant Colonel Reddicker, the captains of every NAC ship in orbit, the commanding officers of both HD battalions on the moon, and the head of the SRA component of our task force, a hard-faced little Korean brigadier general named Park, who looks like he chews bulkheads for breakfast and shits rivets all day.
Colonel Aguilar begins once everyone has joined the link and indicated their readiness.
“The purpose of this meeting is to determine a course of action for the military forces of the Sino-Russian Alliance and North American Commonwealth jointly garrisoning the Fomalhaut system at present. Whatever decision we make at the conclusion of this meeting will be made jointly with input from all parties, both military and civilian.”
Colonel Aguilar pauses as people nod and voice assent. I am watching the SRA officers I can see in the lower right quadrant of the screen. The faces of the Korean brigadier and the staff officers sitting on either side of him are void of obvious emotions. Of all the nationalities that make up the SRA forces, the Chinese and Koreans would make the best poker players.
“If I may?” Sergeant Fallon asks the civilian administrator of New Svalbard, who is seated next to her. He nods, and she clears her throat.
“This moon cannot hold out for long,” she says. “I’m not just talking in terms of military firepower, although that’s an obvious truth either way you slice it. We have a powerful task force, but it’s not even close to what they threw against the Lankies at Mars and lost. But our limited military capabilities are not the biggest fly in this particular soy patty. We are using food and other consumables much faster than we can replace them. Barring a change in the supply situation, we’ll be down to eating ration packaging and hull plating in another three months. Too many mouths to feed, not enough to feed them with.”
“We can take care of our own population, but we can’t keep that many troops fed at the same time,” the colony administrator says. “Our infrastructure isn’t at the point yet where we can sustain a few thousand extra people to keep fed.”
“How are the fleet stores looking?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Oh, we still have rations,” Colonel Aguilar replies. “And we have spare parts to keep most of the drop ships flying for a while before we have to start cannibalizing units. But at this rate, and without any resupply, we’ll be out of sandwiches in ten, twelve weeks. I can’t imagine that our SRA friends are doing any better at this point.”
“Worse,” Brigadier Park says with just the barest hint of a smile. His English is good, hardly accented at all, and his diction as sharp and precise as the creases in his mottled camouflage jacket. “ Minsk is an assault carrier, not a fleet carrier like your own Regulus . Much smaller, less space for sandwiches.” He smiles his tiny smile again at the last word. “Our supply ships have mostly ammunition for planetary assaults, not so much food.”
“Can you put that in a number?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Three weeks, four perhaps,” Brigadier Park replies.
“Super,” Sergeant Fallon mutters. “Starvation or getting blown out of space. No winner in that bunch of picks.”
“If I had to choose just between those, I would much prefer perishing in battle,” Brigadier Park says. “But I suggest we find a way to avoid such a
The strangeness of the day continues at 1800 hours Zulu, when we gather back in the ops center to participate in the conference link requested by the Regulus ’s commanding officer, Colonel Aguilar. The holoscreen at the end of the room divides itself into ever-smaller segments to accommodate the camera feeds of the conference parties as they join the talk. By the time everyone’s in the link, there are twelve different heads looking back at us from the holoscreen. There’s the commander of the SI garrison at Camp Frostbite, Lieutenant Colonel Reddicker, the captains of every NAC ship in orbit, the commanding officers of both HD battalions on the moon, and the head of the SRA component of our task force, a hard-faced little Korean brigadier general named Park, who looks like he chews bulkheads for breakfast and shits rivets all day.
Colonel Aguilar begins once everyone has joined the link and indicated their readiness.
“The purpose of this meeting is to determine a course of action for the military forces of the Sino-Russian Alliance and North American Commonwealth jointly garrisoning the Fomalhaut system at present. Whatever decision we make at the conclusion of this meeting will be made jointly with input from all parties, both military and civilian.”
Colonel Aguilar pauses as people nod and voice assent. I am watching the SRA officers I can see in the lower right quadrant of the screen. The faces of the Korean brigadier and the staff officers sitting on either side of him are void of obvious emotions. Of all the nationalities that make up the SRA forces, the Chinese and Koreans would make the best poker players.
“If I may?” Sergeant Fallon asks the civilian administrator of New Svalbard, who is seated next to her. He nods, and she clears her throat.
“This moon cannot hold out for long,” she says. “I’m not just talking in terms of military firepower, although that’s an obvious truth either way you slice it. We have a powerful task force, but it’s not even close to what they threw against the Lankies at Mars and lost. But our limited military capabilities are not the biggest fly in this particular soy patty. We are using food and other consumables much faster than we can replace them. Barring a change in the supply situation, we’ll be down to eating ration packaging and hull plating in another three months. Too many mouths to feed, not enough to feed them with.”
“We can take care of our own population, but we can’t keep that many troops fed at the same time,” the colony administrator says. “Our infrastructure isn’t at the point yet where we can sustain a few thousand extra people to keep fed.”
“How are the fleet stores looking?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Oh, we still have rations,” Colonel Aguilar replies. “And we have spare parts to keep most of the drop ships flying for a while before we have to start cannibalizing units. But at this rate, and without any resupply, we’ll be out of sandwiches in ten, twelve weeks. I can’t imagine that our SRA friends are doing any better at this point.”
“Worse,” Brigadier Park says with just the barest hint of a smile. His English is good, hardly accented at all, and his diction as sharp and precise as the creases in his mottled camouflage jacket. “ Minsk is an assault carrier, not a fleet carrier like your own Regulus . Much smaller, less space for sandwiches.” He smiles his tiny smile again at the last word. “Our supply ships have mostly ammunition for planetary assaults, not so much food.”
“Can you put that in a number?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Three weeks, four perhaps,” Brigadier Park replies.
“Super,” Sergeant Fallon mutters. “Starvation or getting blown out of space. No winner in that bunch of picks.”
“If I had to choose just between those, I would much prefer perishing in battle,” Brigadier Park says. “But I suggest we find a way to avoid such a
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