Setosha - the Beating Heart
Copyright© 2010 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 20
Families R&D Center
As she walked slowly down the hall towards her office, Robbie Sinclair thumbed through a report on the latest project from one of her more stubborn fruitcakes. This idea was different, and that was saying a lot around here. Galina Bristow was trying to build a grenade launcher that could shoot around corners.
This report was a history of what Galina had gone through while trying to make her concept work, and why she had spent almost a month in the hospital. First, there was the curved barrel, which had been straightened out by the third shot and split after the fifth. Somehow Galina had managed to rifle the barrel, and then curve it, but without creating any weaknesses in the metal. Robbie flagged that little bit for future development. She didn’t even want to know what the recoil from the weapon was like, but she could well imagine. And what if you wanted to shoot around a corner in the other direction? Did you turn the weapon over?
Undeterred, Galina had tried rifling the barrel so tightly that precession of the grenade would force it to traverse a curve. She had supported this approach with page after page of calculations proving that her precession ought to work.
The first attempts failed because the fuse was ruined by the rotation rate of the grenade. After she redesigned the fuse, she found the grenade would fly apart in mid-air. That was because the metal casing of the grenade disintegrated due to abrasion and scoring caused by the rifling. Galina solved that problem by putting a special rotation band on the grenade. Then she found the rifling itself had to be so tight that the propellant would burst the breech of the launcher. Reviewing her specifications for the launcher, she found two errors in her calculations, errors that ended this phase of her testing.
First, the grenade would curve in a normal environment only if it had ridges along it to disturb the airflow, and even then, the grenade would only curve through a few degrees. Second, she discovered that for a normal grenade to get the curvature she wanted, even one with her rotation band, the precession could only work when the grenade was fired in a north-south direction on a neutron star that rotated at least 30 times per second. Showing an amazingly dry wit for one of the scientists here, Galina allowed as how this particular combat situation was unlikely to occur with the frequency that warranted continued development.
Robbie reread that last sentence at least twice. First, she was amazed that the scientist had actually admitted defeat on something that according to her calculations should work. Second, she wasn’t aware that Galina even had a sense of humor. She decided to frame this part of the report for posterity.
Galina’s next approach was completely different. In this new round of tests, she fired two shots a fraction of a second apart. One was a very small imploder warhead she designed especially for the task. The other was the grenade itself. The idea was that the gravitational implosion of the first shot would cause the grenade to curve around the locus and flip it towards the intended target. Robbie wondered why Galina didn’t just stick with the miniature imploder for her grenade launcher. That warhead was easily a fraction of the size of anything else she had ever seen, and imploders were delightfully nasty to enemy bunkers and personnel. Robbie could imagine the effect of several of those tiny monsters detonating one after another on a target. She scribbled a note to follow up on that idea and read on.
Galina put a lot of time and effort into this idea. The concept actually sounded semi-plausible, but it failed in the field trials. She found that the distance between the grenade and the imploder was critical: too great a distance, and the grenade continued on its trajectory without so much as a wobble; too little, and the grenade flipped in a tight arc that sometimes went in the direction she wanted and sometimes didn’t. Also influencing this intricate ballistic dance was the separation between the imploder and the grenade—they had different cross-sections, and the drag affected the trajectory of the rounds. And that didn’t even take into account other things such as air density, foliage, and the random vagaries of air currents. On one of her test shots, the imploder was below the grenade, pulling it into the ground. On the other...
Robbie reread that paragraph carefully. On the next shot, the imploder locus had apparently been just one centimeter above the grenade. It had pulled the grenade in a 180º curve, flinging it back towards Galina. The grenade had unerringly found the observation slit in the bunker, passed through it, and gone off inside. There followed a meticulous list of injuries Galina had suffered, along with a list of equipment damaged by fragments and concussion. Reluctantly, while lying in a hospital bed, Galina had shelved the timed dual-munitions approach, at least for now. She had had yet another idea.
This was simpler, at least in concept. If she couldn’t alter the trajectory with a gravitational locus, she would do it with a physical attachment. Again, she fired two shots. The first shot attached one end of a wire to some nearby stationary object. The grenade was on the other end of the wire. When fired, the grenade would, in theory, be pulled through a curve by the wire. The grenade would separate from the wire and proceed on to its target.
Robbie paused a moment, thinking. Right away, she could see a few problems with that approach. What if the timing of the shots wasn’t perfect? How did you get the grenade to curve precisely around any cover and strike the enemy? How would you force the grenade to detach at the right moment as it swung around on the wire? And finally, what if there wasn’t a convenient rock or tree at hand? True, a lot of times you were firing around the corners of a corridor on a ship, but the usual method of dealing with a corner on a ship was to hammer the area with an accelerator rifle. That tended to remove the cover and anyone hiding behind it. She made a note and continued reading.
Galina’s initial field test was listed as “promising”, which meant she hadn’t managed to kill herself. Robbie made another note: review the records of the Test Range Safety Officer. Any project that hospitalized the researcher ought to receive extra attention thereafter.
Galina’s second field test was a “partial” success. During it, Galina had placed the anchoring shot against a tree. That much seemed to work according to plan. But the grenade had not separated from the wire. Instead, it had continued to whip around the tree in ever-tightening circles, finally detonating against the base of the tree. That had toppled the tree and sprayed wood splinters across the range. Robbie’s eyes rolled upward; there were better ways to knock down a tree.
On subsequent tests, Galina demonstrated that some combination of forces tended to snap the anchor wire. She fixed that by increasing the tensile strength of the wire to the point where it was almost a stiff rod. The fastener attaching the wire to the grenade would then come apart too early through the turning arc, flinging the grenade along a random vector. She had solved that problem by reducing the muzzle velocity of the launcher, which, of course, reduced the effective range of the weapons system. The final muzzle velocity of the grenade launcher was so low that you were better throwing the grenade than shooting it.
Humming to herself, Robbie nudged open the door to her office. She took a step, then stopped to jot a few notes on the report cover page. Pull two of Galina’s research assistants and focus them on developing those mini-imploder grenades for our existing launchers. Second, work on her fusing; sounds better than what we have now. Third, her notes imply we can dial down the propellant charge on our launchers. What did she do? Pull another of her assistants and have them work on that. Something else was needed. Ah, yes. She added one more comment. Soonest. Best get those research assistants a safe distance away before any new ideas escaped from Galina’s fertile little mind.
Robbie nodded, satisfied, and tossed the report in her outbox. As she did so, she realized she had a visitor. She blinked, stared, and snapped to attention, the report forgotten. Admiral Volyn Carter lounged behind Robbie’s desk, idly twirling a pen in her fingers.
“Admiral Carter,” Robbie said. “This is unexpected.”
“Third Officer Sinclair.” Admiral Carter pointed at the office door with her pen. “Please close the door. This won’t take long.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Robbie shut the door, her thoughts racing. Was something up? Was she finally getting away from here? Would she be allowed to return to combat again? She knew her leg was healed, and her last medical had been very promising, even if the doctor said she was pushing herself too hard. But that couldn’t be why the Admiral was here on the sly, unless she had a really sneaky assignment in mind.
“Officer Sinclair.” Admiral Carter watched her closely and made no gesture to indicate Robbie might be allowed to relax from ramrod-straight attention. “How current are you with the status of the war?”
Robbie gulped. “We all know about Setosha, of course, ma’am. Other than that, I’m not really current. This facility takes all of my time and attention.”
“I see.” Admiral Carter’s voice was flat and empty of emotion. She sat there watching; it felt like that time when Robbie was ten and explaining a broken plate glass window to Great Aunt Janine. “I expect you have not heard what happened at Medina?”
“Medina, ma’am?” Robbie searched her memory, trying to recall what, or where, Medina was. “Isn’t that ... isn’t that one of the single-system governments, ma’am?”
Admiral Carter nodded. “It is.” She was silent for a few seconds more. “Do you, by any chance, know a Second Officer Tatiana Silversmith?”
“Of course, ma’am,” Robbie answered. “Tall gal from Setosha. She’s in Scouts. We roomed together at Command & Staff.”
“That’s the person.” Admiral Carter nodded, then fell silent again, choosing her words carefully. “A little over a month ago, Second Officer Silversmith attacked Medina with her Scout. She destroyed two older model Imperial Heavy Cruisers and the orbital station above Medina.”
“With a Scout?” Robbie shook her head. “How, ma’am? Scouts are unarmed.”
“She used 11 antimatter missiles, Officer Sinclair. In her report, she states that she received these missiles from you.” Admiral Carter tapped a report sitting on Robbie’s desk. “She describes how she received them from you on Page 11 of her report.”
Robbie glanced at the report and swallowed dryly. A station? Stations were huge and filled with civilians, diplomats, travelers, traders, and their families, all sorts of people.
“She got them from ... from me, ma’am?”
Admiral Carter flipped open the report. “I’ll refresh your memory of the incident.”
“I obtained the antimatter-armed missiles from Marine Third Officer Roberta Sinclair. We met during Station leave while Snooper was being refitted, and the damage we had taken in the Graveyard System was being repaired. After a prolonged discussion, including lengthy descriptions of some of the more humorous unclassified incidents involving her current duty assignment, Officer Sinclair offered me the missiles because, as she put it, “you can get into all sorts of mischief in a Scout. These little monsters might get you out of that mischief. Nobody would ever suspect a scout might have teeth.”
“We had been drinking and trading stories. At the time, Officer Sinclair’s comment made sense to both of us. I told her I’d take the missiles and find something useful to do with them. The missiles were delivered--”
Admiral Carter closed the report. “I made time to look up a few records myself, Officer Sinclair. During the dates when the Scout Snooper was in refit, you were on leave. I have found several witnesses who saw you with Officer Silversmith at a bar.”
“Aye, ma’am,” Robbie croaked. Her throat seemed impossibly tight. She stared blindly at the wall above Admiral Carter’s head. “I know I took some leave a few months ago. I remember meeting Officer Silversmith.”
“So you casually discussed the business of this secret facility, and then with no orders or authority, you gave away weapons that had been in your control.” Admiral Carter cocked her ear. “Is that what I’m hearing, Officer Sinclair?”
“Yes ... yes, ma’am.” She wanted to crawl under something and die.
“You gave those missiles to Officer Silversmith? Is her report accurate?”
Robbie shuddered. “Yes, ma’am, I did.” Her voice broke. “Please, ma’am, h-how many people were ... how many died at Medina?”
“Even one would be too many,” Admiral Carter said softly.
“Ma’am. I--I had no idea--”
“Apparently not. Do you have any idea of the consequences of your thoughtless act?”
Robbie stared at Admiral Carter. She felt her forehead and cheeks go clammy as she tried to consider the big picture. Medina? An attack on a neutral ... that was bad. That could bring all the other single-systems polities into the war on the side of the Empire. The Families would have nobody to trade with. Families Merchant Service ships would be attacked or seized; the Imperials would come at them from all directions, and they’d be impossible to stop.
“It would be a disaster, ma’am,” Robbie said softly, feeling doom surround her. How could she have been so stupid?
“Could be a disaster, Officer Sinclair, it could be. There is no evidence yet that it will be.” Admiral Carter nodded her head slightly. “We have very convincing evidence that some of the people, and perhaps parts of the government of Medina, have been actively working with the Empire against us. However, Medina is not officially at war with us yet. Yet.”
“What have I done?” Robbie whispered, horrified. One stupid drunken mistake, just one, and now the families were at risk of losing the entire war. Worse than that, how many thousands of innocent civilians had died? How many had she killed? “It’s one thing to kill soldiers in combat; they’re trying to kill us, and, well, it’s the risk we all take. But civilians, innocent people, neutrals: what have I done?”
Admiral Carter leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk and steepling her fingers. She watched Robbie closely, waiting patiently for the Marine to regain her composure. “Yes,” she said at last. “That’s the question, isn’t it, Officer Sinclair? What have you done? At least you realize the scope and the impact of your actions. Second Officer Silversmith did not, not until Eldest Marie Andersen discussed exactly those issues with her.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Robbie tried, and failed, to imagine anything she could possibly do to make amends for her failure. How did the Marines punish a gal who messed up so badly? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be enough.
“Second Officer Silversmith seems finally to have begun to realize what she did when she attacked Medina. I am encouraged that you understood immediately.”
“W-what’s going to happen with us, ma’am?”
Admiral Carter shook her head. “No punishment could ever make up for what you did. We can’t hand you over to the Medinans, although that was mentioned as a possibility before the evidence of their complicity with the Empire became known. You are too valuable to discard back into civilian life. You will be disciplined instead.” She frowned.
“Eldest Marie removed Tatiana Silversmith from command and assigned her to teach Ethics at Command & Staff School. Silversmith will never hold another command again. She will never serve in space again. She has shown herself incapable of the judgment we expect from a ship captain. Unfortunately,” Admiral Carter added after a suitable pause, “so have you, Officer Sinclair.”
“Am I ... are you relieving me of my post, ma’am?”
“I was tempted,” Admiral Carter said, “but I decided not to do that. Eldest Marie reminded me that when we act we must act for the good of all the Families. In a moment of drunken idiocy you gave a deadly weapon to a person you had no reason to believe was trained to exercise responsibility for it. Because you immediately understood the consequences of your action just now, I find, as Eldest of the Fleet, that you have the potential for that maturity we expect in an Officer.”
Robbie shook her head slowly. “I ... ma’am, how can you--”
Admiral Carter held up her hand. “I said potential, Third Officer.” The hard expression on her face did not soften. “Due to your activities here, and because of your error in judgment, if I were you I would not expect to see combat again. As of now you are permanently assigned to Home, though you’ll retain your rank. What end would be served by doing otherwise? What would be gained by busting you down to guarding a gate or running physical training at a base?
“I considered those assignments, Sinclair, and I considered quite a few others that are much worse. All of them would be a waste. The Families require more than that from you, Officer Sinclair. I require more than that. I need you here. Leaving you permanently in charge of this place is worth more to the Families than anything I could think of. Do you understand?”
Robbie nodded. “Aye, ma’am.” It was an exquisitely crafted punishment. She was a Marine, and she was being denied the one thing the Marines did best. She was going to be stuck here in this lab while the war went on without her. For anyone else, this assignment wouldn’t be punishment. For a Marine, for her, it was sheer Hell.
“I pulled your record, Officer Sinclair,” the Admiral said, leaning back in the chair, her voice softening. “The last four officers assigned to this post delivered, altogether, exactly two useful weapons to the Fleet and the Marines. Under their stewardship, R&D became known as a collection of crackpots and loonies who produced many so-called weapons that no sane person would take anywhere near a combat zone.
“In your 18 months here, you have delivered 22 weapons or improvements to existing weapons. You have six more undergoing final acceptance trials. Morale is up, productivity is up, and the reputation of R&D has never stood higher as the girls doing the fighting are given tools that are rugged and effective.
“In your 18 months here, complaints from the scientists are down by better than half, and almost all of those complaints are about those inconsequential matters incredibly brilliant people always seem to get worked up over. The records show you have handled the vast majority of those complaints in a way that these scientists have found to be fair and even-handed, which is no small accomplishment in its own right.
“In short, Officer Sinclair, you have been of immense service to the families. As Eldest of the Fleet, it would be foolish for me to assign you anywhere else.” She sighed. “It looks like you’re stuck with these nutcases for the duration of the war, Sinclair, and perhaps thereafter.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Robbie said. “Ma’am, is there anything I can do to--”
“To apologize for what you did? To make amends? I don’t know. I’ll assign you the job of answering that question yourself. One thing you will do, though, immediately and for the indefinite future, is to stop drinking. I know why you do it, Third Officer; it’s why most people in the service drink: boredom. The one constant in both your story and Silversmith’s is too much drink.
“Like so many other aspects of this whole ugly matter, you two have made your Eldest aware of yet another personnel issue in the Services. I intend to deal with that issue, and I intend to start with you, Roberta. I get reports on what is happening here. And if I get so much as one report that you have been drinking, I will have your ears decorating my office. And that will be just for starters. I will never again hear that you have dishonored that uniform you wear with drunken stupidity. Is that understood?”
“Aye, ma’am,” Robbie whispered.
“I could say that we’ll work you harder than ever, Third Officer, but I won’t.” Admiral Carter’s lips quirked upwards slightly, and the tension drained from the room. “There’s a note in your file that your physical therapist has repeatedly ordered you to take more rest. Ordering you to not work harder would very likely be impossible.”
“I, uh, I guess so, ma’am.”
Admiral Carter nodded. She got up and walked over to the window in the office and stared outside for several seconds. “That brings me to the second reason for my visit,” she said without turning. “I have reviewed what Officer Silversmith did at Medina and something occurred to me. She carried a dozen of these missiles on a Scout. How many of these missiles could be carried on a fighter?”
“I expect four, maybe six, ma’am,” Robbie answered. “They only weigh about 150 kilos each. They were supposed to be portable, and I think fighters have mounts for six missiles. Of course, their warheads have way more power than a pilot needs to take out enemy fighters, and the guidance system is non-existent. But you could do quite a lot with the warhead.” Her eyes suddenly opened wide as she saw what the Admiral had in mind. “Oh, ma’am! Do you mean how many could we produce if we really tried?”
“I do,” the Admiral said. “How quickly do you think you could get these into full production? This is exactly why we need you here, Roberta. Nobody else would have seen this as fast as you just did, and nobody else would be thinking how fast we could take an experimental weapon and ready it for combat.”
“Aye, ma’am,” Robbie responded absently. Her thoughts were tumbling over themselves. “The warhead is simple, though a bit delicate. We can improve on that very easily. That was one of the problems we saw in lugging them around on the ground, but no problem at all for stowing them in a carrier’s magazine. That wouldn’t add much mass to the things, no more than a couple of kilos, max.”
“What about the seeker?” Admiral Carter asked. “The fish farms are at full production, and there just aren’t any more.”
“These things are basically unguided,” Robbie said, “which fits the original design spec. It was supposed to be an area effect weapon; point, shoot, and let it come down where it will. But now that I think about it, we have this seeker based around a Falcon Cortex. We shelved it because it was a little too indiscriminate for surface combat. I’ll send you the reports, ma’am, but the Falcon Cortex is a very expensive way of hunting other birds. That wouldn’t apply in space, of course. We’d have to work a little to train the Cortex, but if we take that seeker, and those missiles...”
New Republic, PSK
“We cannot take the offensive,” Admiral Dutton said. He looked around the table at the rest of the Strategic Planning Board. “We absolutely cannot. The strategic situation does not permit it.”
“Why not?” Lord Newland repeated. “As Naval Advisor to the Privy Council, I must have a reason to give them. I cannot inform His Majesty that the only reason we are not attacking at this moment is that it is Admiral Lord Dutton’s considered opinion that the Navy cannot take the offensive.”
Lord Newland was a small, slender, balding man who favored dark suits. Most people, including many in the Admiralty, considered him an academic and therefore of no consequence. None of them could understand why His Majesty continued to listen to this annoying, slightly stooped little man with the clear, penetrating eyes and his ridiculous little triangular beard.
Admiral Dutton smiled beneficently, relaxed and calm in his upholstered chair. They were meeting in the richly appointed Conference Room next to Lord Newland’s office. Lord Newland was a traditionalist. He was elected from a District where, rumor had it, some folk still warmed themselves with open fires. The cheery blaze laid in his conference room’s capacious fireplace was as much his signature as the Prime Minister’s jaunty little spectacles or the Finance Minister’s gnarled cane.
Admiral Dutton looked down the dark oaken table at the rest of the Strategic Planning Board. Everyone save Admiral Smaethe was present. The Fleet’s Chief Engineer was excused to pursue one of those irritating engineering missions that demanded so much of his time—probably putting chrome handles on all the hatches or some such nonsense.
“We cannot attack because we lack the strength,” Admiral Dutton said. “That’s what you need to tell my lords of His Majesty’s Privy Council.”
“Thank you, my Lord Admiral,” Lord Newland said. If any of the Admirals caught his silky tones, they didn’t show it. “Now clear up a misunderstanding I have. The bulk of the Empire’s battle strength is now at Setosha, which is in the Firestar Nebula. Is this true? And if it is true, then it stands to reason that the bulk of the Imperial Navy is not facing us. And if that is so, then as surely as night follows day, we are opposed by nothing. And if it is true that we face nothing, then surely we have the strength to take back what is ours. We can take back all of what the Empire has stolen from us, and then some.”
“I could only wish that were true,” Admiral Dutton said in an even tone. “I must inform you, however, that the bulk of the Imperial strength is not at Setosha. That is as clear as the light of day that you mentioned.”
“I confess I lack your grasp of strategic nuance.” Lord Newland smiled thinly, his eyes glittering in the light from the fire. “Obviously, as I said, I have misunderstood something. I am informed by utterly reliable sources, Admiral Dutton, sources completely external to the Ladies’ Navy, that there are no less than 30 Imperial battleships with all of their attendant cruisers and destroyers at Setosha. That is 30 battleships out of the 36 we know the Empire has. Perhaps, my Lord Admiral, you would care to explain to me how that does not represent the bulk of the Imperial Navy.”
Admiral Dutton’s nod was graceful. “Lord Newland, have the naval operations of the Empire been marked by stupidity?” He shook his head and answered his own question. “No, my Lord, they have not. True, they have put many of their battleships into Setosha, proving once again, I remind you all, that the Ladies’ carriers are not first-rate warships. There were two of them at Setosha when the Imperial squadrons arrived, and they were lost after far less than an hour of combat. They did not delay the Empire’s advance by a measurable amount.”
Lord Newland had seen a vid made by a ship that had gotten out of the Setosha system. He did not bother to voice his opinion that two PSK battleships placed in the same position would not have lasted any longer than the Families’ carriers. He also doubted that two PSK battleships could have exacted the same toll the Ladies’ fighter pilots had.
“That is entirely beside the point, my Lord Dutton. I have heard your opinions concerning the Ladies’ Navy before. Those opinions are not the point under discussion. Let me make something clear. The strength of our Navy is a matter of record, and that is what I am talking about. I am not talking about the Ladies’ Navy, I am not talking about the strength of their ships. I am talking about our ships, and the strengths we are all familiar with.”
He leaned forward, jabbing at the table to emphasize his point. “What I want, sir, what I must have, what I require from you, is your explanation of why we are too weak to take the offensive at this moment. The Privy Council will not want opinions. The Privy Council can get opinions from anyone. You know as well as I that any politician can have as many opinions as are required of him at the moment, and more, if desired.” Chuckles spread around the table at that statement.
“Remember, my Lord Admiral, that we are dealing with in the Privy Council. I want to explain things to them in words they can understand, which means words of one syllable and less, exactly why we are not advancing at this very instant.”
“Sir Harriman has a way with words,” Admiral Dutton said, his voice offering the unstated opinion that that was all the Navy Minister was good for. “He could explain it much better than I.”
“Sir Harriman is meeting with the Chamber of Delegates over next year’s appropriations,” Lord Newland said. “He is not here. You are here. I am here. In two hours, I am to meet with the Privy Council, and I must tell them something substantive.” He paused. “Or would you rather explain your reasoning directly to His Majesty?”
Admiral Dutton smiled broadly, sharing Lord Newland’s somewhat strained jest. His smile faded when he noted that Lord Newland was not smiling at all. He shifted his bulk uncomfortably, searching for the right words.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.