“The purpose of this meeting is to determine a course of action for the military forces of the Sino-Russian Alliance and North American Commonwealth jointly garrisoning the Fomalhaut system at present. Whatever decision we make at the conclusion of this meeting will be made jointly with input from all parties, both military and civilian.”
Colonel Aguilar pauses as people nod and voice assent. I am watching the SRA officers I can see in the lower right quadrant of the screen. The faces of the Korean brigadier and the staff officers sitting on either side of him are void of obvious emotions. Of all the nationalities that make up the SRA forces, the Chinese and Koreans would make the best poker players.
“If I may?” Sergeant Fallon asks the civilian administrator of New Svalbard, who is seated next to her. He nods, and she clears her throat.
“This moon cannot hold out for long,” she says. “I’m not just talking in terms of military firepower, although that’s an obvious truth either way you slice it. We have a powerful task force, but it’s not even close to what they threw against the Lankies at Mars and lost. But our limited military capabilities are not the biggest fly in this particular soy patty. We are using food and other consumables much faster than we can replace them. Barring a change in the supply situation, we’ll be down to eating ration packaging and hull plating in another three months. Too many mouths to feed, not enough to feed them with.”
“We can take care of our own population, but we can’t keep that many troops fed at the same time,” the colony administrator says. “Our infrastructure isn’t at the point yet where we can sustain a few thousand extra people to keep fed.”
“How are the fleet stores looking?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Oh, we still have rations,” Colonel Aguilar replies. “And we have spare parts to keep most of the drop ships flying for a while before we have to start cannibalizing units. But at this rate, and without any resupply, we’ll be out of sandwiches in ten, twelve weeks. I can’t imagine that our SRA friends are doing any better at this point.”
“Worse,” Brigadier Park says with just the barest hint of a smile. His English is good, hardly accented at all, and his diction as sharp and precise as the creases in his mottled camouflage jacket. “Minsk is an assault carrier, not a fleet carrier like your own Regulus. Much smaller, less space for sandwiches.” He smiles his tiny smile again at the last word. “Our supply ships have mostly ammunition for planetary assaults, not so much food.”
“Can you put that in a number?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Three weeks, four perhaps,” Brigadier Park replies.
“Super,” Sergeant Fallon mutters. “Starvation or getting blown out of space. No winner in that bunch of picks.”
“If I had to choose just between those, I would much prefer perishing in battle,” Brigadier Park says. “But I suggest we find a way to avoid such a limited variety of options.”
“I’m with you there, General,” Colonel Aguilar says. “Question is, what do we do with all these ships and combat troops if we can’t go back the way we came?”
“We can’t go anywhere but the solar system,” Colonel Campbell says. “There’s no other transition point anywhere else in Fomalhaut. Light-hours and light-hours of Not a Damn Thing.”
“Our transition point isn’t safe. We already had half a dozen seed ships on our tail when we made it through on the way here, and God only knows why they didn’t just follow us through and finish the job. We go back that way, we’ll run right into the middle of a Lanky proximity bio-minefield. Or worse, six or ten seed ships loitering by the transition point to blow us to shreds as soon as we’re out of Alcubierre.”
“We can’t stand up to multiple seed ships with what we have, not even with Regulus,” Colonel Campbell concurs. “Forcing the blockade just isn’t an option. If we can sneak back into the solar system and get a whiff of things first, we’d have a better grasp on the situation. Maybe they stopped at Mars for now, and the fleet bases in the outer system are still there. The Titan anchorage has a full wartime supply stock. That’s a lot of food and ammo sitting in storage. Maybe there are even fleet remnants we can add to the task force.”
“That’s an awful lot of maybe,” Lieutenant Colonel Reddicker says. The stocky infantry officer crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans back in his chair. “We go back that way on the carrier, I’ll have almost two thousand grunts camped out on the flight deck, all helpless. They kill that carrier, those men are all going to die without ever getting the chance to fire a shot back at the enemy.”
“We will not load up all our troops and transition back blindly,” Colonel Aguilar replies. “We’ll send a recon team through first.”
“Through Alcubierre? You can’t shoot pods or drones through the network. Not without sticking your nose out the other end of the chute.”
“So we send one ship,” Brigadier Park says. “A small ship, with good sensors. Your little spy ship. It has stealth capability, does it not?”
If we were all in the same room, I have the feeling that all heads would be turning toward Colonel Campbell right now. He looks surprised for a moment and then shakes his head.
“Indy? Yes, she does, but that’s a no-go. I’m tasked with orbital defense by the colonial administrator. If I leave, nobody is covering for the HD grunts from above.”
“I’m fairly sure your ship is still an NAC Fleet Arm asset,” Colonel Aguilar says.
“And I’m fairly sure I have rank seniority,” Colonel Campbell replies. “But even if I didn’t, you folks are going to turn blue in the face if you’re going to hold your breath waiting for me to leave orbit without civilian authorization.”
Several of the other NAC officers chime in, and for a few moments, the conference feed is cluttered with a bunch of staff brass cross-talking in escalating volumes while the SRA officers watch the proceedings silently. Then the colony administrator speaks up, and the military officers fall silent as the tech who runs the feed mutes out their audio.
“Colonel, I do appreciate your willingness to adhere to Commonwealth law,” he says. “But if any of those warships decide to take on the colony, we’ll be dead meat with or without you.” He looks to a spot somewhere offscreen and then shakes his head slowly. “Look, if we don’t find a way for you to get back to the solar system, we’re all going to bite it anyway. Either when our supplies run out in a few months and we starve to death, or the Lankies show up and gas us all. From where I’m sitting, the best use for your ship is doing exactly what the general proposed, and scout a path for the rest of you all back to Earth. Or at least the outer solar system. You have my authorization to leave orbit and discontinue your current mission.”