Flight of the Vindicator

[fnord]

Well, this may not be much of a first post, but here goes.

Apologies to Darth Wong, Dalton, MKSheppard and LadyTevar for naming characters after them without consulting them first - I was stuck for character names and didn't want to lose momentum.

Silly me. The characters jumped up and ran with it. Enough chinwagging, here goes.

CO's office, Depot/Deneb, 209-1129

"You sure about this, sir?"

"Sure enough to risk my hide, Wook."

"Wook", more formally and fully known as Fleet Admiral Jeffrey "Wookiee" von Zeitlin, MCUF and bar, Imperial Navy, was having some minor problems. His current commander pegging him with the nickname nearly twenty years earlier, during the most recent clash between the Third Imperium and its neighbour to spinward-coreward, the Zhodani Consulate, was not one of them.

After a period of deep thought spanning a full second, Wookiee concluded the commander of the Deneb naval depot, a massive, sprawling installation covering the entire star system and quite capable of decade-long self sufficiency, had gone completely and utterly bonkers.

"Sir, extreme high-Jump capability has only ever been demonstrated during misjumps."

"Not exactly only, Wook. Testbeds dropped in three days ago from Skold."

"Skold... that's the other side of the subsector!"

"In one, Wook."

"But... why... why wasn't I informed?"

"Made the call to sequester the ships and crews until they've been examined with fine tooth combs. No use prematurely announcing such a capability."

"Right.. sir."

"Sir", known in another life as Sector Admiral Larsen Elmer "Nitro" Whipsnade XXVI, SEH and bar, permitted himself to grin inwardly. If his nosey exec hadn't found out about the testbed runs, no one who shouldn't know would know, either. If Wookiee can't sniff it out, it ain't worth sniffing out.

"Still, sir, why are you insisting on placing yourself in unnecessary risk by boarding the first mass test run?"

"I've been the one fighting hardest for this, Wook. If I'm scared to put my money where my mouth is, that will also cast doubt on the other programs I'm pushing. As such, effective immediately, I'm placing myself on detached duty for the next one hundred eighty days and assigning command of this installation to you, Admiral."

Whipsnade finished signing the transfer order. For the next six months, Zeitlin would have to fill the boots left vacant by the massive sector admiral. Said admiral towered nearly a half metre above Zeitlin, who, while not altitudinally challenged himself, was of a far slimmer build.

The two admirals signified the changeover with a salute and a handshake.

"Good luck, Wook. Got a feeling you're going to need it."

"Good luck, sir."

- Damn, coffee's gone cold. -


High Energy Weapons Directorate Research facility, Depot/Deneb, 211-1129

Whipsnade's launch pulled into the facility's highport after affording him an excellent view of the 40-some heavy capital starships undergoing final fitting out at the Directorate.

None of the ships were smaller than heavy cruisers, and among their number was one of the Imperial Navy's newest designs, the Vindicator-class superdreadnought prototype.

She displaced slightly over two million tons of liquid hydrogen, and removed the traditional meson cannon from its pride of place as the ship's spine in favour of a somewhat-experimental disintegrator cannon - to the best of Naval Intelligence's knowledge, none of the Imperium's neighbours/enemies had developed practical, ship-mounted disintegrators or, more importantly, screens to defend against it, barring the ever-popular black globe.

Whipsnade allowed himself a small surge of pride. The ships currently in the highport's shadow had existed as visions in his mind's eye four short years before. Now, Vindicator and her brood were ready to slip their moorings and stretch their legs.

- And Admiral Tukera said I was mad.... four years from go to woe.
Merely another record broken by Whipsnadian bloody-mindedness. -

Whipsnade let his mind wander over the dossiers of currently unassigned flag officers in and around the Depot, trying to find a match between the new ships and their shakedown commander. He came up for consideration and dismissed himself in the same thought.

Further cogitation was interrupted by the launch's pilot.

"Excuse me, Admiral, but we're just about to dock with the yard."

"Very good, Force Commander. Want to try your hand driving the big daddies?"

"Sorry sir, I'm a fighter pilot, not a barge driver."

Force Commander "It's Bu-ket!" Bucket, Imperial Marine Corps, docked the launch with an ease born of true talent honed by long practice.

"There we are, sir. Think Admiral Wong's busting to show off his efforts."

Whipsnade laughed. "Hands up all who are surprised."

Bucket's copilot ignored the byplay and ensured it was safe for Whipsnade to debark.

After a short pause, "You're cleared to depart, sir."

"Thank you, Force Ensign. Didn't even notice the docking."

Bucket grinned. "Ace Removals. We Deliver."


Director's office, HEWDR

Whipsnade jumped slightly as the master chief doubling as Wong's secretary, gofer, and aide signalled his boss - the door to Wong's inner office opened with a synthesised "doink-doink" sound.

"Go on through, sir. Admiral Wong will be ten or so minutes."

Whipsnade followed the NCO's suggestion and entered the office.

Whipsnade had barely arranged his massive frame just so when a boundless ball of energy on two legs, more familiarly known as Vice Admiral Lord Michael "LaVerne Thorndyke" Ukirekii-Wong, arrived.

Where Whipsnade had handled the broad strategic details of the Vindicator class, Wong had handled the countless minutiae needed to weld each part into a coherent whole, as opposed to millions of parts just coincidentally flying in formation.

And handled it he had, with a total of forty-two ships, including Vindicator and her sister ship Retaliator, over fifteen million displacement tons total, attaining shakedown status - ready to take the fight to the Imperium's enemies, but with minor bugs that they could very well do without. That total excluded the greater number of hulls in various stages of completion in and around the Directorate itself, let alone the greater Depot.

Wong saluted, pumped Whipsnade's hand a few times, and launched into a high speed spiel about something Whipsnade didn't quite catch.

"Slow down, Admiral, I can't understand you."

Wong pulled up, took a deep breath, gave the three silver stars on his left collar a thorough polish, and started again.

"Sorry sir, got a little carried away. As you probably already saw on your way in here, both Vindicator-class ships currently under construction here are ready to hit space, as are the other lead ships of the new jump-7 navy."

"Wong, I still am somewhat confused as to how you managed to build combat effective ships of that high performance."

"Trivial, sir. Pulled together an idea from pre-starflight Terra and one from the lunatic fringe, which turned out to be not so lunatic. Boost the density of the stored fuel, and use less of it."

"The first one I can understand, but how the hell do you force a jump drive to use less fuel than 10 percent per parsec?"

"Use a fundamentally different drive, working off the lyman-alpha transition of hydrogen. Gives massive savings."

"How massive?"

"Conventional wisdom says 78% of the ship must be given over to starflight for J-7. Using a protium slush pares that down to 67%."

"Still nothing to be proud of..."

"I'm not finished yet, sir. You can give 20% of the ship over and get single J-7 performance."

"You're shitting me, Mike..."

"No, sir. The testbeds that dropped in-system a few days ago are configured as such. The option we've taken for the preproduction ships that we've built here is giving each two-jump capability before refuelling. 30% of the ship given over to starflight, fourteen parsec unrefuelled range, and has enough surplus tonnage to easily outfight stock ships of the line."

INS Midnight Refuge, inbound to Depot/Deneb, 213-1129

< BGM: VNV Nation - Joy >

Captain Robert "Smash" Dalton, IN, SEH, MCUF & double bar, entered Refuge's officer's lounge through its sliding doors, and was not surprised to find two other of Refuge's passengers involved in a slightly heated argument.

Like essentially all senior line officers, Dalton was a career Navy man - "I'm already married - to the Navy" was a semi-sarcastic remark that had passed his lips more than once.

Unlike same, Dalton was both a commoner and a mustang - even among the ranks of the latter, Dalton was very unusual.

Senior Chief Petty Officer had never graced the Imperial Navy's rolls with his presence. Neither had Chief Petty Officer or Master Chief Petty Officer Dalton.

Dalton simultaneously holding the hallowed rank of Captain and not being of physical middle age could ultimately be traced to the mother of all cock-ups.

Approximately thirty years earlier, just before the turn of the century, Master Fleet Sergeant Dalton, IMC, SEH, MCUF & bar, had put in a request to attend Marine Officer Candidate School and, if all went well, to escape it as Force Ensign Dalton. All didn't go well, with a somewhat-bewildered "Smash" Dalton arriving at Navy OCS.

- My common, Marine, punk ass graduating with honours and topping the fucking class didn't go down too well either. -

Dalton's Navy career worked out to be more eventful than his Marine one, one of the notable highlights being having to take command of a squadron during the Fifth Frontier War due to the deaths of the squadron commodore, squadron XO, the flagship's captain, XO and ops officer, leaving its fourth in command, Lieutenant Commander Dalton, in command of and responsible for a seven-ship squadron for an extended period of time. Dalton and his squadron went on to distinguish themselves at the climactic Battle of Rhylanor, in which one Commodore Larsen E. Whipsnade XXVI took his own squadron up close and personal with the Zhodani - a risky move that ended in Whipsnade being both court-martialled for disobeying orders and promoted for his initiative.

Despite acquitting himself well (and earning a second bar to his Meritorious Conduct Under Fire), it just would not do for an ex-Marine commoner to have permanent flag command, thus firmly establishing a ceiling on Dalton's career. Whipsnade, being a scion of the nobility and a career Navy man, had suffered under no such constraint in the past twenty years, rising to the Navy's highest rank.

The former acting commodore shook himself back to the present, to the gravel voice of Mack "Blastwave" Sheppard clashing with the soprano of Elane Tevar - like himself, Sheppard and Tevar were in the process of being reassigned to the Depot.

In contrast to Dalton, who had commanded various classes of ship and the odd squadron, Sheppard hadn't commanded anything smaller than a battleship, and Tevar had risen to her rank based more on her grandmother, the immediately-past Duchess of the Spinward Marches - reflected in her not earning a nickname/callsign, such as the somewhat-infamous "Smash" Dalton or the less-notorious "Blastwave" Sheppard.

Blastwave was a grizzled veteran of the IN, carved from a Whipsnadian mold, but smaller, and somewhat more fond of using high yield settings. Unlike the 2.3m six-star feature on the horizon, Sheppard stood just short of two metres and counted zero-g handball among his off-duty hobbies. This invariably came as a surprise to all who laid eyes on the angular, almost blocky redhead - a certain grace and Sheppard's massive form were presumed to be mutually exclusive.

Next to Sheppard, Tevar looked like a child. Where he was massive, she was tiny - where he was grizzled, her face was barely lined - where he commanded a ship with a relaxed camaraderie, she kept her distance. A misplaced wisecrack on Sheppard's bridge would earn a glare from him and a few jokes at the would-be wit's expense - the same crack on Tevar's bridge would more often result in the loss of a week's pay and a visit to the brig.

The almost pixeish Tevar, her short stature and white hair being results of her mixed Vilani-Darrian heritage, was venting re: common flag officers, all the while unaware of Dalton's entrance. Sheppard didn't much care about nobility - the Emperor himself would only be respected by Sheppard based on his achievements, not his birth, so battle was joined.

Dalton silently sat beside the pair, interrupting Tevar mid-rant with an order for a double vodka and port. Tevar pulled up red-faced while the enlisted bartender paid no heed and mixed Smash's drink.

"Really, Captain, what problem do you have with flag officers not born to obscene wealth?"

After accepting his drink from the bartender, Dalton settled down while Tevar spluttered. Sheppard sniggered, further angering the tiny officer.

"Your views are, of course, your own, but judging from Sector Admiral Whipsnade's past history, it would be prejudicial to your career to air them within his earshot."

At a glare from Tevar, Dalton expanded.

"He was born to the Ballybran barony - the richest in the Imperium. Disinherited himself before he enlisted."

"Graudated from OTC, you mean..."

Dalton shook his head. "No, Captain, I meant what I said. Able Spacer Whipsnade enlisted in the Navy in, I believe, the latter half of 1069. In his subsequent career, he has attained what only four other sophonts in the preceding seventeen hundred years have done - the home run. Although born a noble, the man was a commoner when he pulled it off. Only one home runner, who, I might add, currently commands the entire Navy, was born a commoner."

"How the hell do you know all that?"

"Is it not prudent to research your next commanding officer?"

Dalton's question caused Tevar to throw up her hands in disgust and storm out of the lounge.

"Is Captain Tevar always given to such theatrics, Sheppard?"

The mobile mountain shrugged. "Usually."

- Gonna be an absolute barrel of laughs to work with, - thought Dalton into his drink.


Admiral Zeitlin's quarters, Depot/Deneb, 215-1129

Wookiee Zeitlin was busy shaving off the hardy fuzz that was the source of his nickname when there was a loud knock at his door.

- Now who in the name of fnord is that? -

As if in answer, one of the Marine guards yelled in, "Bloke here by the name of Edanaaki here to see you, sir."

Zeitlin cut himself and swore while his direct superior, Mitchell Edanaaki, Commander, Deneb Domain Logistics Command, showed himself in.

As Zeitlin went to salute, Edanaaki waved him down. "No need to bother, Wook - only here on a social call."

The young Marine accompanying him paid only scant attention to the two admirals, instead inspecting the sparsely decorated living area.

Zeitlin took a breath to compose himself, trying to ignore the blood leaking from the fresh cut on his chin.

"Sir, why do I get the impression your aide is...... "

"Casing the joint?"

"Yes, that's it, sir."

"He probably is."

"How come you picked up a lance-jack for an aide, sir?"

"Corporal Baley?"

"In one."

"I believe you remember the Bard Refuge incident, Admiral."

At the reminder of the time that Wookiee, Nitro, et al made off with said Azhanti High Lightning-class frontier cruiser during the Fifth Frontier War, Zeitlin cringed somewhat.

"As I recall, sir, the Baley that helped us pinch Refuge was a Scout at the time, not a Marine."

While the two admirals were talking, Edanaaki's aide had discovered Zeitlin's booze stocks.

"He's a distant relative. The ability runs in the family."

The aide set down two opened bottles of Lobrau in front of the pair, to silent thanks from both.

"What happened to the original?"

"Now's the Count of Five Sisters."

*SPPAAAAAAAFFF*

"Admiral Zeitlin, spraying beer on a superior is somewhat unbecoming of you."

Wookiee flushed even redder... "Sorry, sir... that's a complete surprise... the guy never struck me as a noble."

"He's also my identical twin ..."

*SPPAAAAAAAFFF*

"Jeff, why don't you just give me the damn bottle? You've already sprayed half the contents on me."

Zeitlin shrugged and handed over the bottle. "Any more beer-spraying revelations, sir?"

"Nope."

Edanaaki turned to his aide, who was busily inventorying Zeitlin's booze stocks. "Naturally?"

"Sir?"

"Get the hell out of there, grab yourself a beer, and join us."

The conversation between the two admirals and the Marine ambled randomly for nearly an hour, until:

"So, Jeff, how did you manage to build twice the number of ships you were originally directed to build at the HEW Directorate?"

"You'll have to thank Sector Admiral Whipsnade for that, sir. The original build of twenty ships came in nearly sixty percent under budget."

"SIXTY?"

"So he exercised his discretion as the commander and incorporated the lessons learned into a new-build run of ships. Even after that, we were eight percent under, so we refitted the lessons learned to the original run."

"Why?"

"Come on, sir.. coming in that far under budget would have tweaked some ass-covering bureaucrat's nose, with bad news for the Sector Admiral and yourself. As it is, you ended up with twenty-two bonus ships with a lot more of the bugs worked out than usual."

"Uh-huh..."

"One question that's been bugging me, sir."

"Shoot."

"How come Admiral Whipsnade is your subordinate despite outranking you?"

"Easy, Jeff. He, and I understand you, are in the line, correct?"

"Far as I know, sir."

"That's where it gets weird. I ain't - just a staff officer. Sector Admiral is a line only rank, so I won't be getting promoted."

"Why not transfer to the line?"

"Screwed up big time the year before the Frontier War. Got pulled from the line and dumped into logistics. Found I had a talent for getting stuff where and when it's needed. Rose up from subsector logistics command to Domain level by 1120. Shore installations fall under sector command and the Depot is directly under Domain."

"So you've got an easy job compared to other Domains?"

"Far from it, Wook. I have to keep an underfunded, underdefended, frontier area stocked and supplied from a single major stockpile. Sol and Antares have, I believe, three Depots apiece while the other Domains have four."

"Never heard it put so lucidly before, sir."

"Been pushing for the last decade to get another Depot set up, probably on the border between the Marches and Troy. Have you pencilled in as the initial commander, with attached extra star."

Wookiee's ears perked up. "Well, sir, why can't you just pick a base and start scavenging funds to upgrade it?"

[Argosh]

Nice start! 'Notify me when a reply is posted' is checked.

[fnord]

Bridge, INS Bard Refuge, Regina/Regina, 081-1108

Captain L.E. "Nitro" Whipsnade XXVI, captain of the Azhanti High Lighting class cruiser Bard Refuge, leaned back in the captain's chair that had been custom fitted for his massive frame.

Like the rest of the multi-Imperium-spanning and infamous Whipsnade line, the good Captain was a born gambler. At the moment, he wasn't playing for something as trivial as his career - he had staked his life on his current course of action.

Further cogitation Whipsnadian was interrupted by his newly-diverted XO, Commander Jeffrey Zeitlin.

"Captain, I think they're a little pissed."

"How so, Commander?"

"Minor stuff to the tune of 'turn back or we blast your ass out of space'."

"So we've been rumbled?"

"Good guess, sir... hang on a minute..." Zeitlin paused to listen to the comm chatter ... ".. we got an Admiral Wiseman reading you the riot act... "

Whipsnade's reply was drowned by baritone cursing, switching between Bilanidin and te-zlodh, with the odd smattering of Galanglic.

The source of the verbiage poisoning the surrounding air was apparently a boy in his late teens. Supervisor Danaarin "DG" Baley, IISS, obviously didn't think much of Refuge's jump computers. The youth was of somewhat average height, having dark brown hair and an olive complexion - he would blend into any crowd anywhere in the Third Imperium.

"Baley, care to enlighten us?"

"Easy, Captain - the jump computer just shit itself."

Whipsnade started cursing under his breath.

"Transferring jump control to... manual... hold on everybody, this is gonna be a bumpy ride..."

A pre-recorded voice, common to ships throughout the Imperial Navy but rarely heard, started blaring: "ALL HANDS, ALL HANDS, ALL HANDS, BRACE FOR EMERGENCY JUMP."

Whipsnade, with Zeitlin providing a tenor accompaniment, started cursing audibly. Entering Jumpspace, especially for a long-range ship such as Refuge, involved a long and intricate sequence of events that all but required computer control, and the calculations to actually enter Jumpspace itself were overlapping sequences of ever more accurate approximations.

And Baley was doing the whole damn thing on manual.

Baley's face was a drawn mask of concentration as his fingers were an invisible blur. Refuge's duty astrogator, one Sublieutenant Frederick Ramen, watched dumbfounded as the youthful Scout took Refuge into Jump by the seat of his pants.

The last transmission that Refuge's comm officer received before Baley hotdogged it into Jump read: "Stand down or we will fire on you."

The transition into Jump shook Refuge from stem to stern - Ramen thought the fillings in his back teeth were trying to depart from his mouth, Zeitlin had to pry himself out from under a rail, Whipsnade wasn't sitting down any time soon, and Baley had to do a rather quick handstand. A quick look around confirmed the rest of the bridge staff had fared similarly.

After a couple of minutes, the shaking subsided.

Whipsnade was the first to pass comment: "Jesus H. Christ shitting two bricks, the bastard did it."

Ramen glanced sideways. Baley hadn't even sweated.

The comm officer had been knocked unconscious, so the ever versatile Zeitlin was filling in, relaying status reports from the ship's various sections, which amounted to: shaken, not stirred.

The jump clock had started, with the dark blue numerals relentlessly marching upwards.

"Commander Zeitlin, my ready room. Mr Ramen, the bridge is yours."

Ramen nervously acknowledged being given more responsibility than in his career thus far while the XO hotfooted it to the captain's ready room.


Captain's ready room, INS Bard Refuge, outbound from Regina/Regina, 081-1108

After accepting a beer from his captain, Jeff Zeitlin made himself comfortable.

"Well, Jeff, that's phase one complete."

"Still can't believe we're doing this, sir."

"No need to be that formal, Jeff - in private, Nitro will do."

"Are we being chased, sir?"

"Count on it - a member of the Whipsnade clan absconding with a long range cruiser is just not tolerated without a damn good reason. I'm hoping coming back with a boatload of rescued POWs will save me from a firing squad."

"So, sir, just to get this straight: We're absconding with Refuge, wandering off across the Spinward Marches, because we both cogged a breakout involving the old girl?"

"In one."

[Lindar]

*tag*

[fnord]

This one's a work in progress - a little feedback would vastly improve it.

County palace, Iderati (Five Sisters/Spinward Marches), 193-1129

Alec Whipsnade had a small problem. Being a fairly small (1.7m), black-haired, red-eyed member of the Whipsnade line wasn't it at the moment.

He had traipsed across the rimward edge of two sectors in the general direction of the galaxy's spin, starting from the system he nominally ruled, Ballybran, to go shopping, but the man he was buying off wasn't where he was supposed to be.

The retired Marine-turned-diplomat was having a quiet fume when he spotted a familar face. Unlike Whipsnade, who had resumed aging upon his retirement from the Marines, the familiar face was still apparently a teenager.

Said face was attached to Sector Marshal Makhaya "Ferret" Sterrett, IMC, who counted among his achievements being one of four Imperial servicemen to win a fifth bar to his Starburst, and the only one not to die trying. The reasons why the six-star Marine was slumming it in the spinward-rimward extreme of the Imperium behind the Claw were known only to said Marine. He had been in line to replicate his sister's rise to command of the Navy when Ferret had abruptly upped stakes and shifted out to the Marches, where he had spent the bulk of his career.

Whipsnade, still fuming, changed course to intercept his old commander - perhaps Ferret might know where the man Whipsnade had come to talk to would be.

The conversation thus struck up between Ferret and Whipsnade was long and meandering, as the two had last had a serious chinwag eighteen years earlier, shortly after Whipsnade had retired from the Marines and joined the Imperial Diplomatic Service. The latter had caused Ferret to dissolve in peals of genuine laughter.

"... I don't... believe it... ... High Explosive... turned fucking diplomat..."

"Can go one better, sir."

"Try me."

"You have the honour of addressing Lord Alec Judas Whipsnade, Baron Ballybran."

Ferret cracked up again.

"Was a little hard to get used to, and I'm on the inside."

While the good Marshal slowly recovered his composure, with the occasional snigger making a break for it, a civilian secretary/flunky collected the pair and delivered them to the elusive Count, who had somewhat predictably installed himself in one of the many watering holes in the palace's grounds.

Like Whipsnade and Ferret, Danaarin "DG" Baley, Count of the Five Sisters subsector, looked decades younger than reality thanks to a thirty-year stint breaking heads in the Marines. The careers of the three had intertwined during the rescue of the Rats of Tobruk, a motley crew of civilians, Marines, soldiers and stranded starmen.

Instead of merely holding off the Zhodani assault and then either evacuating or surrendering, the Rats took after their ancient Solomani counterparts - stubborn, unbending resistance mixed with frequent raiding, rendering an entire vastly-outnumbering Zhodani field army combat ineffective before Ferret ordered the Rats to lay down their arms.

Ten long months later, the borrowed INS Bard Refuge, with Baley astrogating manually, extracted the two hundred surviving Rats from the POW camp the Consulate was maintaining them in.

All that was ancient history now, as Whipsnade had come a-shopping to equip a huscarle unit, and the Count of Five Sisters' Own was a doozy - recruited solely from decorated veterans of either the Imperial or Darrian Marine Corps, the Count's Own currently had two field armies on strength, with another two divisions serving as ship's troops on the shipping line founded by Baley over a decade earlier.

The Baron of Ballybran's Own, despite the fantastic wealth afforded the barony by the crystal deposits found there, had been permitted to decline during the tenure of previous Larsens E. Whipsnade - an oversight that Alec intended to rectify. Preferably with at least a division of troops equipped to the same level as the Count's Own - somewhat ahead of the Imperial norm.

[fnord]

Been a little busy lately, sorry about the delay.

CO's office, Depot/Deneb, 217-1129

< BGM: VNV Nation - Joy >

"Sir, you can't be serious."

"Quite serious, Smash. You should have been promoted years ago."

Robert "Smash" Dalton fought down a shiver of excitement. His feet tingled, and he found his throat suddenly bone-dry. After so long, he was back on the brink of his own flag.

He had been selected as the shakedown commander for Vindicator and her brood - the command involved a permanent promotion to commodore with a brevet to rear admiral. If all went well, the brevet would be permanent.

Fleet Admiral Zeitlin handed over two silver stars, waited for Dalton to remove the iridium bars currently adorning his collar and replace them with said stars, then returned Dalton's eager salute.

Smash swallowed twice to try to moisten his throat. "W... why me... sir?"

"Out of the captains available to be assigned, Admiral, you were one of seven with any previous flag experience. Of that seven, you have the most due to your experiences in the Fifth Frontier War. Secondly, you're quite an unusual mustang."

"Thank... you.. sir... this is all still quite overwhelming...."

"You've only been waiting twenty years. I can understand."

"So... sir.. I am to take command of the Vindicator and her brood and put them through their paces?"

Zeitlin nodded. "As long as you can deal with a six star, seven foot, passenger."

"Admiral Whipsnade is hitching a lift? Why didn't he take command, sir?"

"Well, just between you and me, Smash, Nitro's more of an engineer than a commander - he intends to spend most of the cruise up to his ankles in jump drive plant...."

Dalton looked puzzled.

"... while standing on his head."

"Do I also have to endure any of Clan Spofulam, sir?"

"No, Smash, you won't."

Dalton exhaled a breath he didn't realise he had been holding and let his shoulders drop.

"That's a relief, sir. I'll fly my flag aboard Vindicator - can I pick the captain and XO?"

Wookiee's right eyebrow jumped up to chase his hairline. "Why would you want to?"

A grin stole across Dalton's face. "Make Elane Tevar eat a bucket load of crow."

"You want her as boat boss?"

Dalton shook his head, at which Zeitlin relaxed. "No sir, XO. Probably tag Sheppard as skipper."

[LadyTevar]

Dammit! I'm not that big a Bitch!

... Am I?

[fnord]

Well, Tevar's risen to her rank the old fashioned way - heavy use of family connections (her grandmother is a sector duchess) in preference to actual ability, plus a wide network of cronies who have covered for her to varying extents over the years.

Dalton's a whole different kettle of fish. His uniformed career (with kilt issued) started in the Marines, where your or your family's social standing counts for about as much as the dirt on the ship sergeant's boots. As such, real ability (in Dalton's case, in the jump trooper business - being one of the poor bastards who jumps out of a starship) is the big decider. That attitude has stayed with him through the paperwork screwup that sent him to the wrong officer candidate school and his subsequent career. As a result, his opinion of Tevar is rather low.

And the two of them are going to be aboard the same dreadnaught. I almost pity Captain Shep.

[LadyTevar]

At least tell me that Tevar has *some* ability when it comes to command If she's the hard-ass, at least make it so she gets respect from her crew?

[fnord]

Vindicator is her first capital starship assignment. She's used to commanding smaller boats, those that lack spinal mount weaponry.

[LadyTevar]

Vindicator is her first capital starship assignment. She's used to commanding smaller boats, those that lack spinal mount weaponry.

Ah. This will be interesting, especially if she's going to be XO and 'disclipinarian' of the ship.

[fnord]

Well, apologies for the delay. As always, please read and review.

Bridge, Fallen Angel-class heavy cruiser INS Lucifer, 228-1129

< BGM: Somebody Told Me - The Killers >

"Captain on the bridge!"

The various officers and ratings jumped to attention as Alex "Mosh Pit" Le Strange, coffee cup full of a thick, black brew and emblazoned with "Boss Of The Boat" in hand, stepped onto the bridge that had become "hers" mere hours previously.

Unfortunately for Lucifer's executive officer, one Commander Frederick Ramen, his leap to attention brought the top of his head into abrupt contact with the station he had been taking a monkey wrench to, resulting in a loud thunk and Ramen knocking himself out.

Amusement twinkled in the captain's green eyes as she watched Ramen knock himself out.

"At ease, everyone. I appreciate Commander Ramen going out of his way somewhat," Le Strange paused to let the sniggers pass, "and our orders are as follows: Take Lucifer out of port and through a shakedown cruise lasting at least six months, udner Admiral Dalton's command and extended at his discretion."

Le Strange continued to outline her plans for and what she needed from the crew for the shakedown cruise - the instructions continued for long enough that Ramen had enough time to come around and shamefacedly apologise for beaning himself, causing Le Strange to pause long enough to let the crew on the bridge laugh their fill.

Flag Bridge, INS Vindicator, same time.

< BGM: Imperial March (Rage Mix) - Star Wars: Force Commander soundtrack >

One of the perks of flag rank that Dalton was still getting used to was an aide-de-camp following him around, keeping his bottle of Lobrau (or, more rarely, coffee cup) full, and generally getting underfoot.

In Dalton's case, the aide-de-camp was Midshipman Dekenaana Irusiran, a perennially-flustered, tiny, woman of pure Vilani extraction, easily dwarfed by the flag officer she was aiding.

A constant stream of "Dammit Irusiran" and "Irusiran Dammit" issued from the rear admiral as she maneuvered around him and his staff as they busily worked to co-ordinate the battlegroup's departure and subsquent cruise.

Dalton had split the battlegroup into six squadrons, a six-ship heavy battleship squadron that he personally commanded from Vindicator, an eight-ship battleship squadron reinforced by its dreadnaught flagship Retaliator, and four cruiser squadrons, ranging from five to ten ships in strength.

Although somewhat smaller than operational squadrons in the Imperial Navy, Dalton was also keeping in mind the limited flag experience of his squadron commanders, most of whom he expected to attend flag college after the cruise finished. Dalton himself had attended after the end of the Fifth Frontier War, but that had been the upper limit of his career until now.

Fleet Admiral Zeitlin hadn't agreed with all of Dalton's requests, as Sheppard had been brevetted to Commodore and was flying his flag aboard Retaliator - if there was one thing that Sheppard knew, it was heavy iron. In Sheppard's stead stood, somewhat surprisingly, Zeitlin's long-estranged son, Ion.

Until the latter's arrival at Depot/Deneb, the elder and younger scions of Clan Zeitlin had exchanged no communication since an exchange before the Fifth Frontier War, shortly after Ion's graduation from OTC. Ion had long since stopped caring about the incident and subsequent estrangement, although from what Dalton had understood from the short conversation he had had with the captain, the reunion with his father had affected him more than he would admit.

CO's office, Depot/Deneb, same time

"So, the reunion didn't go as well as planned?"

Wookiee Zeitlin took a long scull from his cup of coffee before replying over the video link set up between his office and Whipsnade's cabin on Vindicator.

"Could say that, sir. Ion kept within military courtesy, but it's like the only relationship between us was the naval one."

Whipsnade sighed. "It's been over twenty-five years, Wook. You were expecting to apologise and have all forgiven?"

Zeitlin shook his head. "No, sir - but I was expecting something other than a total denial of our father-son relationship."

Whipsnade laughed bitterly. "You didn't piss your son off enough that he cleared out to the other end of the Imperium. You've been able to follow Ion's career. Apart from being in the Navy, I don't know what Bill has done."

At a raised eyebrow from Zeitlin, Whipsnade sighed and continued. "I had come home on leave, a couple of years after I got myself committed. Elena had died six, maybe eight, months earlier while I was out on a shakedown cruise..."

"You don't strike me as the marrying type, sir."

"The ironic thing was, we were going to finally tie the knot when I got back from that damn cruise."

[fnord]

Bridge, INS Lucifer, an hour later

"All divisions report ready, uh...."

Le Strange shrugged. "Either sir or ma'am. Suit yourself, Fred. This tub ready to rock?"

Ramen swallowed, grateful for the out his captain had given him. "Yes, sir. We undocked forty minutes ago and are boosting to the jump point, pending final uplink from Vindicator."

"So, you think we have this first jump wired, Commander?"

"It would app...." Ramen trailed off as cold chills drag raced down his spine.

Le Strange had smiled when Ramen had opened his mouth - a cold, merciless smile with all the warmth of the Great Rift and about as much mercy.

Shit, the evaulator wasn't kidding.... Ramen didn't say.

"Let us see how wired it really is, Commander."

Ramen looked at her quizzically, then...

"Order the ship to battle stations and start the timer."

"Sir?"

"I believe I just gave you an order, Commander. Hop to it."

Ramen shook himself, then hit a nearby intercom button. "All hands, this is the XO. Battle stations meson, repeat, man battle stations meson."

Ramen's order drew quizzical looks from the bridge crew, as the exchange between him and the captain had been sotto voce.

"What are you sitting around for with your thumbs up your asses? MOVE!" thundered Ramen, acutely and uncomfortably aware that
a) the captain was timing this
b) if the crew was slow, it landed him in shit
c) if the crew was fast, all was well but no bennies for Ramen.

Almost instantly, klaxons blared, the synthesised announcement of "all hands, battle stations meson, all hands, battle stations meson" started playing, and bedlam erupted throughout the ship.

Now Ramen was happy that he'd pulled similar no-notice drills during his time aboard the cruiser, as the crew and Marines knew their stations and hustled to them - the bedlam betrayed an underlying organisation that sent reports streaming to the bridge.

Two minutes after the order, the last Marine section reported in.

Another seventy seconds after that, Engineering reported in.

A minute later, the flag bridge reported in, including a serve from a somewhat peeved Commodore Jonathon "Eyebrows" Howard.

"Captain, the ship is at battle stations meson."

"Impressive, Commander. Three minutes and ten seconds." Regulation demanded battle stations on a ship of Lucifer's tonnage be manned within six minutes of the order being given, but Ramen had a hunch that the crew, and by extension him, would have less leeway.

Turning her attention to the spluttering commodore, Le Strange easily switched gears.

"Commander, you have the bridge. I will be in my ready room."

"Aye, sir."

Ramen wasn't too sure, but he could almost swear the bridge warmed up as the captain left.

[fnord]

Bridge, INS Vindicator, same time

"Transmitting jump uplink, captain. Gamma... delta... beta... epsilon squadron flagships report verification."

"Fla... stand by, captain - flag bridge reports alpha squadron verified."

Ion Zeitlin exhaled, stretched, and waited for Dalton's order to take his ship into jump. "Stand by astrogation, engineering, and helm."

The pilot and navigator, being on the bridge, acknowledged immediately. Vindicator's engineering department took a little longer.

The order to take the ship into Jump arrived simultaneously with engineering's reply.


Engineering, INS Vindicator, minutes later

Sector Admiral Whipsnade basked as the pulsing hum of the jump drive's homopolar generators built to a crescendo.

Commander Dixon J. "Beefy" Flatline, on the other hand, was somewhat busier. As Vindicator's chief engineer, he had to supervise, co-ordinate, de-conflict, and generally not allow to fuck up, the myriad of things that went on as the great ship entered Jump for the first time.

As such, he didn't really breathe or relax until the crescendo tailed off and diminished as it should.

"Thank fuck for that. I think we made it. Awright, everyone stand down from entry watch. Sparks, get the jump profile on my desk by end of the shift."

The gaunt, red-headed teenage girl referred to as "Sparks", more formally (and thus, rarely) known as Petty Officer (3rd Class) Cheyne Van, had somehow ended up as Beefy's assistant and gofer during Vindicator's insystem trials.

The exact reason(s) why she was crewing aboard a naval starship in Deneb sector, over two hundred parsecs coreward-spinward of the world of her birth, were very simple.

Eight years earlier, Sparks had stolen a prototype cyberdeck from out under the collective noses of SolSec, the security/secret police arm of the Solomani Confederation, the Imperium's neighbour immediately to rimward of the Solomani Rim. Said act resulted in Sparks' rather rapid abscondment corewards and subsequent defection to the Imperium.

Never one to abandon a good thing for the sake of it, Sparks continued her flight corewards, reasoning the more of the Imperium she put between her hide and SolSec, the safer the former would be.

Joining the IN was an afterthought. Escaped console jockeys from the heart of the Confederation being so rare behind the Claw, Sparks ended up in, and taking a shine to, information warfare. There, her cybernetic enhancements were not the hindrance they would have been in more conservative branches of the Navy.

She kept the dreams about an escaped electronic superweapon strictly to the innermost recesses of her psyche.

"Already uploaded, sir."

A trait that she shared with Commander Flatline was that neither's actual birth name was revelant. Flatline's had not mattered since Terra reached the stars, while Van had obliterated hers.

Beefy had long since stopped being surprised at the speed with which Sparks handled and directed information - he had come aboard Vindicator during the closing stages of construction, and literally ran into Able Spacer Van - things had gone from there like a bushfire, Van essentially becoming Flatline's secretary and aide upon her promotion to PO/3.

"Okay, smartass. Collate the results and put together a briefing for the skipper."

Very few things could knock Sparks back on her heels, but trips deep into officer territory were one of them.

"Me.. sir?"

"Why not? You're the one who put the summary together. Flesh it out a bit, let me look it over, then brief the skipper."

"BUt.. i've never been in officer territory, sir..."

"Better start getting used to it. You're going to be going all over the ship. Even into flag territory."

Sparks could see she wasn't going to weasel out of this one, and let her shoulders slump in defeat.

Whipsnade, on the other had, had both been in Sparks' position himself and had extensive experience poking his nose around the various territories. He also felt a little sorry for the girl - usually junior enlisted never entered officer territory period.

The massive flag officer ambled over to Flatline.

"Commander?"

"What is it, Admiral?"

"Could I borrow Sparks for a half hour or so?"

"What for, sir?"

"Help her get over nerves. Girl's got potential, cracking petty officer before her twentieth birthday - beat ol' Larsen E. to it - I cracked PO not long after I hit 22."

"Yo..yo... you're... a mustang?"

Whipsnade grinned. "Not many of us, but we do float around."

The number of mustang sector admirals on active Navy duty had never exceeded its current level, two - Whipsnade, and the IN's commander in chief, Nyota Sterret. Mustang flag officers, collectively, were signficantly more numerous (viz, "Smash" Dalton), but far outnumbered by their direct-entry colleagues, such as Admiral "Wiseguy" Wiseman from Whipsnade's boat-driving days.

This stood in direct contrast to the Imperial Marines, where every officer, from the greenest Force Ensign, right up to the commander in chief, without exception, was prior enlisted. Marine officers tended to be chronologically older, more often decorated for bravery, and more respected by their subordinates than their naval brethren.

[fnord]

Sorry for the late reply, but real life got on top of me. After PMing Stravo, and getting his OK, here we go again....

Marine Officer's Mess, INS Vindicator, an hour later

"TEN-HUT!"

"Back to it, guys. We're all professionals here."

Recently promoted Sector Marshal Jonas "Durandal" S. Strawn looked around the mess as officers of various ranks scrambled back to what they were doing before he entered. Strawn, rather short for a Marine at 1.7m, possessed of fiery red hair, light brown eyes, olive complexion and a face made up of uneven triangles, proudly wore the decorations he had earned during his half-century of service to the Imperium.

Such decorations included a Fourth Frontier War service ribbon, a Fifth Frontier War command ribbon, two Starbursts for Extreme Heroism, a gold Pop Up Target award, five Medals for Conspicuous Gallantry, too many Meritorious Conduct Under Fire awards to bother wearing, among others.

After all, he had been promoted for his abilities, not his looks.

One of two Marines aboard the battlegroup to carry a marshal's baton, the other being the Marine commanding the army corps embarked aboard Retaliator, Strawn was in overall command of approximately eighty Marine divisions carried aboard the group and ready to smack anything that Admiral Dalton didn't like the look of.

Durandal grabbed a meal for himself, - the cooks here were officers -, a table, and spoke up, his voice cutting through the babble that had risen back up.

"Awright everyone, how'd the entry go for the sections you're in? Go round the mess, in ascending order of seniority."

In a gathering of naval officers, that last sentence would have either caused raised eyebrows or a near-riot. The Marines present just shrugged, composed what they were going to say, and waited their turn.

The reports added up to "slicker than groat shit, sir."

Unlike the Navy, the Marines devolved authority as far down the chain of command as possible - Durandal himself, as a buck sergeant during the Fourth Frontier War, had had to take command of the shattered remains of his company and rally it to resist a Zhodani assault while the UA troops that were supposed to be supporting his troops broke and ran.

Thus, Durandal's opinion of the Unified Armies of the Imperium was not as high as it could have been. A hastily promoted Section Sergeant Strawn had had to replicate his feat soon after, welding the shattered remains of his battalion into a cohesive fighting company - not exactly Rats of Tobruk level grit, but he was not the semi-legendary Ferret, then, now, or ever.

As a result of his battlefield heroics, though, Durandal ended up meeting the two legged legend, during his first and the latter's second attempt at Officer Candidate School in the mid 1080s. Durandal had always harboured a private suspicion that Ferret had been having far too much fun as a senior NCO to let being committed disrupt it, showing up the basic difference between the two men. Durandal was very prim, proper, and by the book. Ferret regularly lobbed the book out the window, made it up as he went along, and otherwise thoroughly offended strait-laced Marines such as Durandal, but the chain of command allowed commandos such as Ferret their antics - they worked. In a completely different environment to the regular Marine units.

Durandal became Force Ensign Strawn upon completing his stint at OCS, while Ferret went around for another crack at it a couple of years later upon becoming Gunny Ferret. This time, Ferret came out the other end as Force Ensign Sterrett.

The two's paths hadn't really crossed since then, with Durandal going on to command Marine port garrisons, ship troop detachments, culminating in gaining his marshal's baton commanding the Marines assigned to the Deneb Naval Depot, before coming aboard Vindicator. Ferret had risked his life much more frequently, as indicated by his fourth Starburst for Extreme Heroism coincident with his promotion to Force Lieutenant, and the fifth with his promotion to Force Commander. The record-breaking sixth Starbust (as he didn't die trying) came during the Tobruk siege, with Ferret copying liberally from the pre-starflight Solomani General Moorshead.

Durandal knew that Ferret had returned behind the Claw after his stint commanding the Imperial Guard, and had heard rumours that he was working on a new subsector-level command, but didn't know any more details.

[fnord]

But wait, there's more. And you're not cleared for that makes a cameo.


Flag Bridge, INS Lucifer, same time

Eyebrows' nose was still out of joint (although the eponymous bunches of hair remained undisturbed).

The battle stations drill that Mosh Pit had pulled shortly before entering Jump had really ticked him off, not to mention jolt him out of a rather rewarding planning session.

As such, the brevet commodore was rather enjoying tearing verbal strips off his flag captain when she pulled him up with a single question.

"Sir, exactly why are you so annoyed with me ascertaining the capabilities of my crew?"

Howard's XO, a grey-black furred Vargr known as Captain Ransyn "Gonzo" Daevagh, had remained silent during the barrage. Daevagh's nickname had attached itself to her during her time in Naval Intelligence, stemming from her quick, accurate memory and very un-Vargr-like patience in synthesising various sources of intelligence into a complete, comprehensive picture to be passed upwards to whatever flag officer, noble, or mix of the two screamed for it the loudest. "Go talk to Gonzo, she knows all" was regularly uttered by the analysts who shared the cramped rooms with her.

Transferring from Intelligence to the Line six years earlier, Gonzo found herself on an irresistible collision course with command, scrambling up the ladder from lieutenant to commander inside three years. The third iridum bar was, like the rest of the senior squadron officers, but a brevet.

Le Strange's question had provoked a fit of near apoplexy in the commodore, who evidently wasn't used to being pulled up by subordinates.

Looks like the eyebrows is about to bust a gasket bounced around inside Daevagh's mind. She looked around for somewhere that could withstand the physical force of the commodore's expressed fury.

Howard kept spluttering, face puce with indignation.

"If you are ordering me to pull no such drills while you are aboard, sir, you are exceeding your authority - per regulation, the captain of the flagship is tactically responsible, while the flag officer's responsibility is strategic. Ascertaining and ensuring the ship's readiness to enter and survive combat is a tactical matter, sir."

By main strength, the commodore forced himself to calm down. Daevagh had been ready to dive for cover when the gasket blew.

"You made your point. Dismissed." escaped through gritted teeth. Le Strange saluted, and exited the flag bridge.

When Howard's explosion of "I REALLY REALLY HATE THAT WOMAN!" rattled the door, she added a grin to her face and a spring to her step.

Gonzo emerged from cover warily. "You all right sir?"

"Am now, Captain."

"Liaise with the comms department and put in a call to Admiral Dalton as soon as possible."

"Aye, sir."

Admiral Dalton's quarters, INS Vindicator, 230-1129

Admirals Whipsnade and Dalton were quietly enjoying a beer together in celeberation of Dalton's second star and managing to get all his battlegroup into Jump sans mishap, when the intercom sounded.

"Hang on a minute, sir." Whipsnade shrugged and took another sip. Dalton stood up and ambled over.

"Dammit Irirusiran, can't you see I'm busy relaxing?"

"Call for you from Commodore Howard, sir."

"What's mussed his eyebrows?"

Irirusiran shrugged. "Wouldn't say, sir. Shall I put him through?"

Dalton looked at Whipsnade for an opinion. "Suit yourself, Smash, but blowing him off now means a fuckton of whining later."

Smash grimaced, then nodded to his aide.

"Call connecting now, sir."

The tiny woman was replaced by a three quarter head view of Howard. Christ, he's an ugly fucker. mused Dalton. Personally preferred Irirusiran. Helluva lot easier on the eyes, not to mention I'd hit it if it weren't for the chain of command thing.

"What the hell is it now, Eyebrows?"

"Why was I assigned such an intransigent subordinate as Le Strange, sir?"

That's odd... from what I've read, she knows her job inside out.

"Intransigent how, Eyebrows?"

Howard drew himself up, with Dalton tossing up whether it was to get a good splutter going or merely to make him look more important.

It was to get a good splutter going.

Minutes passed, utterly boring Smash out of his skull, when his patience finally snapped.

"Commodore, either get to the fucking point or quit polluting my comm channel and screen."

Stunned silence followed, until Dalton angrily punched the disconnect button. Swearing at himself, he pinged the flag bridge.

"Sir?"

"Anything that comes through from Commodore Howard for the rest of the jump, hold, summarise, and give me same."

"Aye, sir."

Dalton disconnected, still enraged.

"Beer?"

"Think I need two after that whinging, whining little prick."

Whipsnade wordlessly handled his fellow flag officer two bottles of Lobrau.

"How many calls does that make now, Smash?"

"Seven by my count. Neglecting the ones I've initiated, such as squadron check in, and so on. Sir, one question..."

"Go ahead, as long as you can the 'sir' stuff when we're in private. Callsign'll do."

Dalton ripped the top off the second bottle and started it.

"How come someone so obviously unsuited for flag command ended up with one?"

"Couple of options. Option the first: Wookiee's testing you. Option the second: My enbristled subordinate has screwed up. Option the third: Got fnord?"

"Ah, the unknowable machinations of fnord," a shrug Daltonian, "probably a good an answer as any."

[fnord]

Just wanting to get it out of system. As always, please read and review.


Kuiper Belt, Lan-chou (Deneb 2317), 236-1129

Ordinarily, deep space is nothing special, just another bit of the biggest volumetric component of the universe, vacuum.

Lan-chou's Kuiper Belt was unusually thin, just irregular balls of various ices making their own, unhurried, far-flung way around the system's M5 primary and K8 secondary.

Then, a flash, racing away at the speed of light, to be intercepted by the various Scout facilites in the system.

Over the next one hundred and seventy minutes, forty-one more flashes occured, as Vindicator and her brood returned to normal space.

The early arrivals had wasted no time in scouting out likely sources of fuel, but waited until their sisters arrived to commence fuelling operations.

By the time the lead ship of the Fallen Angel heavy cruiser class had arrived, the flash from Retaliator's exit was two thirds of the way to the nearest scout facility, no doubt to raise eyebrows and cause panic therein.

Alpha squadron, consisting of Vindicator herself and the lead five ships of the Rammstein dreadnaught class, and consisting of over half of the battlegroup's tonnage, wasted no time after their arrival, commencing fuelling operations within minutes, as they required the most fuel, nearly a million tonnes of liquid hydrogen, three parts going to Vindicator, one part each to Rammstein and her sister ships.

Elane Tevar, standing watch on Vindicator's command bridge despite Ion Zeitlin's presence, was nervous - this was the first time she had had any type of command of such a huge vessel. She wasn't alone - Zeitlin's biggest command before this was a heavy cruiser, but the captain was a much better actor.

"Sir, this seems too easy...."

"Don't worry about it, Elane. I'm guessing the last boat you commanded - a frigate, wasn't it? - could disappear without trace in our fuel tanks?"

Tevar nodded.

"Just let the engineers do their job, and make sure you do yours - keep on top of any potential threats to the ship that may arise during refuelling. Bigger ships, cruisers and up, especially big fuckers like Vindicator, require much more specialisation despite the much bigger crew capacities."

"Still, sir... why does it seem so easy?"

Zeitlin laughed quietly. "You'll wish it was this easy when you're scuttling into a gas giant's atmosphere on empty and you're under heavy fire."

Where Tevar on the command bridge was nervous, Dekenaana Irirusiran on the flag bridge was absolutely terrified. Admiral Dalton, somewhat the worse for fatigue and drink, had told his XO to take a hike and had left the midshipman overseeing the battlegroup's refuelling operations.

He's left the battlegroup in the hands of a nineteen year old girl, pounded through Irirusiran's head as she watched the incoming reports.

Fred Ramen, doing much the same as Tevar but aboard Lucifer, but without his captain's presence, cursed his luck, which was running true to form. Lucifer had wrangled a severely contaminated iceball and would take significantly longer to refuel than expected, and Ramen was debating whether to wrangle another one, but was half-expecting to find the only iceball within range that was more badly contaminated than the one currently wrangled.

After further unproductive argument with self, the commander fished around in the pockets of his jacket, extracting a half-credit piece.

Heads, stick it out, tails, go look see, as he tossed the coin with a great heave.

He had to check that the coin had landed on tails twice before he let himself believe it.

He toggled the intercomm. "Engineering, conn, start shutting down fuelling ops."

"Conn, engineering, aye, sir, shutting down."

"How long until we are ready to move?"

"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, sir. Notify when ready, sir?"

"Do it. Conn out."

Ramen next ordered the comms officer, an Aslan who's name he hadn't quite worked out yet, to ask around the squadron.

"Sir, Makhaya Sterrett reports they have spotted an iceball about two orders of magnitude less contaminated than the one we have - they're waiting to guide us in on your order."

[fnord]

Flag Bridge, INS Vindicator, minutes later

"Uh.. sir...Lucifer and Fallen Angel are transferring to less contaminated comets to speed their squadron's refuelling."

Being addressed as "sir" by a comm officer who had been in the Navy since before she had finished primary school, thus well and truly trumping her in date of commission and grade, made Irirusiran's stomach try to outdo itself doing flip flops.

Sublieutenant Andrew "Radar" Johnson (he had scaled the ladder as high as the exalted rank of lieutenant commander, but a couple of drunken indiscretions had put paid to that) watched as an agony of indecision consumed the midshipman standing watch, before motioning said flustered midshipman over, hopefully in a way that would allow Irirusiran to save face.

A hushed conversation opened with "Why the hell did you call me sir, Radar?"

"Simple, you're the officer detailed to stand watch and thus are currently in command."

"Of the entire fucking battlegroup, Radar!"

Johnson grinned. "Admiral Dalton must have confidence in you. Cross commissioned officers like him don't normally tell you they have confidence in you, they throw you in the deep end and show you."

That didn't ease the flip flops. "Not helping, Radar, not helping at all. Now what the hell did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well, sir, about your indecision," Johnson took a deep breath, "permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Yeah, just keep it down."

Permission thus granted, Radar relaxed a bit, keeping one ear open for comm calls.

"From what I've seen in my career, a commander has to be decisive, THEN right. The right answer is no good if you take too long getting to it, especially where an almost-right answer will do almost as well. For example, when those two ships notified you of their refuelling changes, would it not have been good enough, since this isn't a life or death situation yet, to acknowledge their changes, ask for a revised estimated completion time, then get one of your subordinates to revise the estimated fuelling time for the entire battlegroup?"

"Uh, I guess so...."

"Not good enough, sir. Yes, or no. Do, or do not. Have you heard of the concept of 'fatal terrain' ?"

Irirusiran's perplexed look was all the answer Johnson needed.

"I'm not too sure about the specifics itself, but it goes something like 'terrain on which we only can be saved from destruction by fighting without delay is called fatal terrain. On fatal terrain, always engage in battle.' True, we are a dry navy, not a ground force, but the analogy holds - a commander's hesitation can doom her force to at best suboptimal performance, at worst annihilation."

"But I'm not even qualified...."

"Doesn't matter - you're the one on the spot until relieved by competent authority. Scuse me, sir."

Johnson turned to his comm board and acknlowledged the refuelling changes, ad libbing the commands from his "superior".

Taking her cue, Irirusiran got the squadron commanders to revise their fuelling ETAs - even, to the amazement of all present on the flag bridge, staring down Eyebrows.

After the commodore, fuming at being bested by a child, signed off, Radar was as stunned as the rest of those present.

"Check me if I'm wrong, but did we just see a mouse roar?"

Irirusiran was as stunned as everyone else, before she dropped her face into her hands and started shaking.

The stunned silence continued until someone uttered "Way to go Mouse...", then it was broken by Irirusiran's hysterical laughter.

Radar spoke up, "Sir... I think you just got named..."

[fnord]

Anonymous petty officer bunkroom, INS Vindicator, that night, ship time (237/8-1129)

Sleep refused to come to PO/3 Van as she tossed and turned uneasily in her bunk.

She could close her eyes, relax somewhat without problems, but restful sleep eluded her.

the long, dark warships prowled the once-prosperous trade routes, scoured clean of organic life

The dreams were back.

megatonne rain from on high

trillions dead in an orgy of mutual self destruction

Not to mention the voices.

"We shall fight them on the beaches...."

"It is time to put away the trappings of childhood. The past, no matter how vivid, how preferable, is not ours to grasp. We must let it go. The Empire will not save us. The Emperor, luminous and gallant, will never lead a relief fleet through the raiders to reclaim us, to return us to our rightful place in an Imperial family. Because there is no Empire. The Empire is populated, where it is still populated at all, increasingly by madmen."

"Domain of Deneb Navy reports that Domain of Deneb borders are closed effective immediately for indefinite future. Anyone attempting to enter the Domain of Deneb is subject to search and seizure or possible destruction.

Communication will not be accepted.

Domain of Deneb goes off the air immediately. We keep the flame. Good luck. Communication ends."

Unable to sleep, the redhead cursed under ber breath in Bilanidin and turfed herself out of the bunk.

Making her way through the darkened bunkroom to the fresher, it took her three tries to slap the small kitchenette's lights on, before making herself a cup of strong, almost corrosive, coffee.

After taking a scull from the mug, Sparks mulled over her visions.

They didn't feel like the ones she had had before - they didn't seem, for wnat of a better label, as real.

They didn't feel like premonitions that had later come true, either. For starters, premonitions, at least the ones that Sparks had had, dealt with the future. These didn't.

As if in answer to her musing and raising the mug to her lips for a second scull, Sparks' perceptions of time and space promptly disjointed.

[Kartr_Kana]

need more, lots more, will be watching closely for more. Good fic by the way

[fnord]

Unknown location, unknown time

(BGM : BGC 2040 OST - You're In The Battle Field)

When her perceptions returned somewhat closer to normal, Sparks no longer found herself in the darkened bunkroom.

Instead, the bewildered teen found herself in a battledress morgue. With a leaden feeling of unreality pervading the whole experience, she looked around, absently noting the sophonts with her.

Two Vargr wearing the green and gold berets of the Imperial Marine Commandos, one rake thin while his companion was built like a brick shithouse.

One garden variety human Marine, shucking out of a uniform with crossed xasers on the shoulders.

Three human naval officers, one of whom Sparks noted with mild surprise as being Admiral Dalton's aide, Dekenaana "Mouse" Irirusiran, now wearing the two silver bars of a sublieutenant. The male officer seemed familiar but Sparks couldn't place him, despite the single iridium bar on his collar. The commander gave herself away by the standoffish air she maintained, even in the morgue's fairly tight confines.

In her own hands was not the two tone grey utility uniform issued to naval ratings and junior NCOs. With mild surprise, Sparks finally registered the black utilities of a chief or officer, with the two grey pips denoting the common chief petty officer, and the branch markings of information warfare.

On autopilot, she proceeded to board the suit of battledress that was hers for the drop, wondering exactly why a support-functions crewdog such as as herself would be boarding battledress or getting ready to practice the fine art of falling ass-first out of a starship.

Sparks clunked towards the launch tubes and climbed into one, running last-minute checks on her powered armour.

"Green light!" issued from her suit's speakers.

A brief surge of uncompensated acceleration gave way to free fall as eight drop capsules shot out into space, falling planetwards.

As soon as she cleared the drop ship, Sparks noticed a slight hiss in her radios. Judging by the comments and paint peeling language she heard on said radios, so did the other seven sophonts dropping with her.

The minutes crawled by as the capsules continued their descent, still in medium orbit, far above the gaseous shell surrounding the world below. The hiss had been slowly growing as the drop continued.

"Chief, you all right?" She guessed it was the gunnery sergeant.

"Sorta.... little nauseous..." Actually, she had no fucking clue what was going on, but no need to tell him that.

"Don't stress out... everyone's like that on their first drop - it tends to turn your insides out. What do you make of that hiss on the radios?"

"Someone's jamming us."

"Can you narrow it down?"

"Gimme a minute or two.. I don't exactly have my usual stuff with me..."

"See what you can do. I want to know the location to better than a cubic parsec."

It was the work of a few minutes to localise the jamming to the maintenance docks at the naval highport in medium orbit.

"Any better?"

"Give me time, dammit!"

[fnord]

County palace, Iderati (Five Sisters/Spinward Marches), 238-1129

To say that Alec Whipsnade was impressed would be an understatement.

He had just witnessed the conclusion of an exercise wherein a regiment of the Count's Own had forced a dug-in division of Imperial Marines out of their prepared positions, occupied same, then held against and repulsed the counterattack, taking very few casualties despite being outnumbered both times, and inflicting serious damage on the Marines.

As such, he was sitting in on the after-action debriefing given by the Marine two-star and the huscarle colonel.

Like the two-star, Whipsnade was mystified as to how the huscarles had pulled it off.

At a gesture from DG, Lieutenant Colonel Thalassa Calvarez, CoFSOH, SEH and bar, MCG and triple bar, returned to the lectern.

"Are you familiar with the Huscarles' recruiting and selection process, Baron?"

"Somewhat...."

"To save time, I'll summarise. We use the Imperial Marines as the first stage filter, weeding out those unsuited to long term armed service. Secondly, out of that set of Marines, we limit our recruitment set to those Marines who have won at least a Medal for Conspicuous Gallantry, or, of course, a Starburst."

"Why not winners of the MCUF?"

"No selectivity, Baron. Just about every Marine ends up winning at least one in their career, and commandos seem to attract them without any effort whatsoever, so you're a piss poor Marine if you don't end up winning at least a meritorious conduct under fire. Winning either a Starburst or a Medal for Conspicious Gallantry is somewhat rarer, and indicates that the winner has been proven to possess the qualities that the Count desires in his household forces."

"Any lower limits on time in the Marines before a jarhead is eligible to apply for the Count's Own?"

"Good question, Baron. Sir?"

DG stroked his chin in thought. "Well, I'm not bothered. If a recruit wins an MCG or a Starburst in basic, and survives, then I'd take him."

One fact about the IMC's basic training regimen that was deliberately kept low-key was the casualty rate - approximately 20% of recruits died sometime in the course, with most courses having the fatalities towards the start of the training cycle. Similarly, Marine Commando Selection killed approximately 15-20% of the hardened Marines who attempted it, and Officer Candidate School usually killed about 10% of its candidates.

This led to the entirely understandable attitude that if you survive basic training, you have "the right stuff" to be a Marine.

Calvarez continued, "As you all know, sirs, from personal experience, good personnel recruitment is a necessary but not sufficient part of building a fighting force. Along with that, you require equipment, training, and doctrine."

Knowing nods all around.

"Training is fairly easy - the bulk of our training costs are borne by the Imperial Marines and to a lesser extent, the Daryen Marines. Doctrine has evolved to be a fusion of the two parent forces', and as for equipment..."

Whipsnade perked his ears up.

"... that's mainly due to the Count also being a Darrian noble, somehow wangling access to relic pre-Maghiz era technology and producing same. Part of our 95% success rate is due to technology beyond the Imperial maximum - if you want to go that route, Baron, I would suggest Vincennes as a closer source than here."

Whipsnade nodded, as Vincennes was the highest technology world in the Domain of Deneb - he'd gotten drunk with the planetary emperor a few times. Properly played, Ballybran's awesome wealth might be able to catapult both it and Vincennes to the top side of Survey 13, technological heights never reached by any human race.

[fnord]

Well, it's chugging slowly along.


Unknown place, unknown time

(BGM: BGC 2040 OST - You're In The Battle Field)

Sparks had finally managed to localise the jamming to a ship supposedly laid up in the maintenance docks in orbit.

The naval commander ordered a course change soon after, just before the jamming drowned her out.

As happened to the others, when Sparks landed in the massive dreadnaught's fighter docks, the jamming no longer affected her comms.

An icy tungsten ball materialised in Sparks' stomach as she spotted a nameplate inscribed "INS Retaliator" while moving away from the fighter docks.

Soon afterwards, the small boarding party split up, Sparks and the gunnery sergeant heading towards the computing cores/combat information centre, the commando sergeants towards the command bridge, while the naval officers headed for the flag bridge.

As she approached the CIC, the hairs on the back of her neck started standing up - something felt not wrong, but altogether weird.

The first time the redhead had had that funny-weird feeling, she had proceeded to steal a certain cyberdeck and abscond corewards, SolSec hot on her heels.

As then, bailing out now was looking somewhat attractive.

(BGM: Move - Dogfight)

The vision disjointed temporarily, with Sparks finding herself now in the dreadnaught's CIC, a much battered cyberdeck extracted from her power armour and telltale cables snaking out from it into both her and a nearby data port.

Reality slipped away, replaced with a fractal universe, accelerating towards her, the corona of the system's outer defenses up ahead.

Except that these defences weren't the cool, monochrome julia set that Sparks had come to associate with standard IN defenses.

She barely had time to realise that before she slammed into said defences and bounced away.

Cursing under her breath, she changed her approach, throwing her electrokinetic abilities into the mix, especially the rare ability to directly interface with a computer or other AI.

The second approach dipped low and jinked upwards through a strong point in the defences, Sparks' approach assimilating into the defences before drifting through them - she was in!

The temperature of the tungsten ball dropped again, as the drift took Sparks into a spontaneous AI - some of the worst fears of the ship's designers had been realised, with one of the central cores waking up.

[fnord]

Flag bridge, INS Vindicator, 238-1129

Admiral Dalton settled back into his command chair, quite pleased - an entire battlegroup had been refuelled, a couple of quirks in the new ship classes discovered and worked around thanks to the engineering crews, and the worst that had happened was a light cruiser scraping an iceball.

Dekananaa "Mouse" Irirusiran was also quite relieved - in her case, that she wasn't standing watch over the battlegroup.

Even so, neither of them could shake a nagging feeling that something was off somehow.

Dalton leaned back and lazily punched the intercom.

"Conn, flag, any ETA on initial jump solution?"

Elane Tevar's tired voice answered him.

"Flag, conn," she paused, as Dalton heard a query thrown in the background, "half hour at best, two hours at worst."

"Conn, flag, aye. Out."

Tevar punched off the other end, as Dalton got to musing. Ultimately he was responsible for the half million Marines embarked as ship's troops, and the other half milion or so naval crewdogs as well. With a million lives ultimately in his hands, some extra prudence in peace time was well justified.

[Stofsk]

Awesome! A Traveller fanfic - man, I didn't even know this was being posted!

It's not bad - a lot of the characters are well fleshed out, and you do a good job of writing their idiosyncracies. I wouldn't say there were any favourite characters yet, but you have a lot of good character 'moments' - like when Mouse roared at the whiny Commodore, much to her surprise.

Though I get the feeling that this is a rough draft. It could stand to be cleaned up, the plot does feel disjointed, due to the time jumps, Spark's clairvoyance, and so on. Also, setting out a Dramatis Personae would do a lot of good since you're populating the story with many characters. It's hard to keep track of them all.

How do you come up with/select your Vilani names? How do you pronounce 'Irirusiran'?

I'm more familiar with T20's Gateway milieu, but this is set in a different time period - Spinward Marches, pre-Virus. Hell, pre-Civil War it seems. Also I noticed at one point the battlegroup was in Jump, and yet they could communicate with each other. Either you know something about Traveller that I don't, or this was done for story purposes. My understanding is that a ship in jump is in its own personal universe, and thus can't communicate with anyone or anything. (or maybe I read it wrong? It was when Whiny Commodore whined about having Le Strange one-up him - that was in-jump, right?)