//This story takes place before the events in the next chapter (
of the Terpla'ns. It would've been my entry to the story contest had I not be distracted by Galactic Civilizations II - Twilight of the Arnor.
Hopefully Parts 2 and 3 will be done in June and the first installments of the Terpla'ns, chapter 8 and the Hokum, chapter 4 following soon afterward.//
Flag Lieutenant Nolsus, commander of pinnace base Oyster Cove-02, looked at the four officers sitting in front of his desk. To his left sat his station security chief, Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Matau-de Tes, an E’sani, and his adjutant, Lieutenant (1st Grade) Wessa Tinker, a Crajen. On the other was Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Davke and Lieutenant (1st Grade) Pavami. Both were Terpla’n, just like Nolsus, and they didn’t need to turn their huge eyes to see Tes and Tinker. They blinked their inner set of eyelids in a sign of displeasure, a fact not lost on anyone in the room. For Nolsus he drummed his fingers on the desk to express his. “I’m suppose I should be glad that the Commodore decided to leave the matter in my hands,” said the senior officer. “We’re not all that far from the front, and it’s imperative that the training of Whale crews isn’t interrupted by the kind of fracas that occurred yesterday in Rec Center #2. Now, let’s start with you, Davke.”
As a decorated veteran and acknowledged expert of Whale armed pinnace tactics and operations Davke had a lot of prestige. However, he was no fool to think that would help his case with Nolsus. “Well, Sir, those rookie Valhallan crews we’ve been assigned to have yet to grasp the importance of traditions regarding small craft basing. The tender
Curtys and its assigned flight group, the Blue Whales, were granted much sought-after ‘ramp privileges’ on this base. Among those privileges was the manning and stocking of the base’s recreational center bars. Well, those rookies didn’t contribute to the tip jar, the contents of which go a long way to obtain those, ah, products that aren’t on the normal acquisitions forms. So I laid down the law, and closed the bars until such time the rookies contributed.”
Nolsus shifted his large eyes to Tes. “Lt. Tes?”
“It made have started like that, Sir,” said the E’sani, his spoken Terpla’n having a deep accent to go along with his huge lungs. “But the recently arrived rookies cajoled the bartenders, practically the only civilians on this base, to open the bars. Then the Blue Whales came in after conducting an endurance test of their replacement pinnaces. Being thirsty, they found that their favorite beer had not only been sold, but completely out of stock.”
“Then what came next, Lt. Tes?”
With sparse, trim whiskers twisting in distaste the security chief made himself answer. “Well, the Blue Whales were cajoling and extorting…”
“It wasn’t extortion,” said Pavami in a moderate voice. “Genuine Seaweed Beer is hard to come by, especially the brand involved, and its cost was commensurate with its rarity. We had every right to fair compensation.”
“Which amounted to a month’s pay of every Valhallan in the bar in question,” Tes said back in with equal composure. His deep voice was suited for a demigod, and Pavami swore he saw the very air vibrate. After given the junior office a look just short of glowering he continued. “Being fueled by liquid courage, those young Valhallans refuted the extravagant demands. The Blue Whales, with their reputation…” he eyed Davke this time “…in regards to drink and merriment, challenged the rookies to a fist-fight between the pinnace commanders with the losing side paying for replacement Seaweed Beer.”
Nolsus thumbed through the plaspaper hardcopy of the incident report on his desk. “Lt. Tes, this is the point where you and Lt. Tinker entered the recreation center. Having observed the commotion on your minicomp on the way, you took the unorthodox step of picking up Tinker and, in your words, ‘brandished him like a serving plate’ and then told the crowd ‘I have a Crajen and I’m not afraid to use him’.”
Tes twitched his snout again. “Yes, Sir. Tinker did give his consent for that unorthodox method of crowd control.”
“Actually,” said the Crajen, his four stalked eyes fully focused on Nolsus, “I was the one that came up with the idea. That, plus waving and snapping my crusher claws did get the young ones to shut up.” Save Tinker, everyone spoke Terpla’n Standard. The base computer’s translation matrix hadn’t enough on Tinker’s voice patterns to passably replicate intonations, so his voice was rendered in harsh, staccato bits that grated everyone’s ears.
To his credit Nolsus didn’t roll his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he had to put out fires caused by zealous station security. In the coming weeks it certainly won’t be the last. “That much I got from the representatives of the Valhallan crews. It’s bad enough that for many of them this marks the first time out of their home system. What made it worse for their first introduction to a Crajen was one where it was held aloft by a confederate and menacingly snapped his crusher claws at anyone nearby.”
“That’s not exactly true, Sir,” said Tes. “His claws were up in the air when he did his snapping.”
“Don’t forget that Tinker was pointing menacingly with his working hands at them.” This came from Pavami, and it earned him all four of Tinker’s eyes looking scornful at him. “Valhallans have a thing about being pointed at with fingers.”
Nolsus felt like a parent facing uppity children and decided to nix further incrimination. “Gentlemen, and I use the term conditionally here,” he said giving the eye to both Davke and Tes, “discipline will be enforced on this station, from green-gilled newbies and combat-savvy veterans that let drinks do their thinking off-duty. There’s no such problems occurring on the fighter base, and it’s a mixed crew over there as well. If something happens that does make the Commodore get involved… well, the offenders will be going home busted down to apprentice spacers in a cargo pinnace hauling personal effects of those killed in battle, among other things.” It was no joke coming from Nolsus. As a base commander back in Hagelkorn he followed through on his words and send a handful of offending small craft crews all the way to Terpla and Kiosho on a pinnace carrying combat deaths in cold storage. Whatever the officers were feeling was kept locked up as their eyes betrayed nothing. “Now, I’m going to invite the senior Valhallan pinnace pilot in a moment, and I want a resolution that is equitable to everyone. Understood?” He paused, letting the officers make their acknowledgment. “Good, because starting tomorrow this base will become a school of activity in one way or another.”
********
Prime Lieutenant Fanmet was in the shuttle operations room aboard the
Falconer, lead ship of the
Falconer class of pinnace carriers. In one partially partitioned section of the room was his office, and he was going over various training problems, assessing the order they'll be utilized in this portion of the voyage. The
Falconer was part of a small task group, composed of six pinnace carriers, three heavy cruiser sized escorts, three frigates, twelve commercial-engine corvette escorts, one destroyer-sized transport and six scouts. As for the task group's objective it was the Twins system. With the struggle going on for Battlement, a system just two transits from the Twins, and the beginning of Operation Restoration set to recover the Bedrock system just days away, events were shaping up for a decisive turning of the war. Once Bedrock was secured the AFC would flow like a storm-swelled river and rid Axis space of the Abom Commonwealth and their allies, including that major nuisance known as the Hokum Imperium.
Fanmet reflected on the path his career took to reach this point in history. Before the current war he aspired to become a strike fighter pilot upon joining the AFC. His reflexes weren't quite up to the task, so he went to shuttle school. With his initial performance rated quite high he was then cross-trained to operate an assault shuttle. Five years later the war against the Aboms started and Fanmet was taken from his duty as commander of shuttles on a personnel transport to that of squadron commander of assault shuttles based on a troopship. He recalled vividly his first action, landing troops on the Hamthen world of Eversham II. The images of environmental domes bursting open from cannon fire and of underground habitats caving in from groundquake bombs were inspirational enough, but the ground assault on the Hamthen homeworld was joy incarnate. Actually causing the fall of mighty towers and sparking immense fires in Abom-choked streets filled him with such ecstasy that no war video could even hope to feebly replicate. With four months of work on Hamthen Prime under his belt Fanmet's next assignment was the Pyrocumulus system. His now expert assault shuttle crews were sent ahead with their troopship to take part in the invasion of the Abom colony world. After a month of operations on Pyro IV Fanmet was promoted and assigned to be the chief field instructor of the assault shuttle school on Bandstand.
Fanmet didn't complain about his new job. If anything he was quite pleased to pass on his knowledge, practically gained battle experience, and passion for being an assault shuttle pilot. With the war going the way for the Asteroid Axis all the new troopships were going to the front as soon as they had their assault shuttles manned by trained crews and their hulls filled with fresh troops. Then the news came of the Abom victories in conquered Hamthen space, and of another race that was conquering systems in an Axis sector that used to belong to the now-dead Nu'Chut AIs. News of an armed variety of pinnace came initially as a shock, but then transformed into an insatiable need; a need to have such a new weapon for the Axis. With his need in mind development was pushed full-bore, along with a smaller, but faster design that came to be called the escort shuttle. Like the pilots he was training on Bandstand Fanmet chomped at the bit to get armed pinnaces to train on. Instead, and most likely influenced because of the assault shuttle school, the pilots were assigned to learn the ins and outs of the escort shuttle, officially called Stilettos in the AFC lexicon.
With a cadre of assistants Fanmet felt that his students were well versed on the Stilettos when word came of the Abom attack on Battlement, a system five transits out from Citadel and five from Bandstand. While the Aboms had successfully broke into the system they were weakened, unable or unwilling to break past the ring of fighter bases in Battlement's asteroid belt until reinforced. There was an expectation to send the first batch of Stilettos and their carrier motherships to Battlement immediately. However, as the abom Hokum were about in the Nonstop system the slow freighter-hulled shuttle carriers would be vulnerable to interception. Besides, the AFC already had a plan for the deployment of Bandstand's Stilettos.
On his desk terminal Fanmet, acting on a whim, opened that section of Operation Restoration file that pertained to the task group. It was called Operation Baseplate, and it involved disrupting Abom logistics behind their lines of advance. Intelligence had identified three Axis systems held by the enemy that contained closed warp points and would be part of any logistical fleet train. Since the Aboms wouldn't have failed to at least probe the warp points and the systems beyond proved they didn't captured intact databases revealing them. In two of the systems only a single closed warp point was available while the Twins had three out of four, so the possibility existed there for future incursions if not an avenue for a fresh counterattack. Working on the assumption that the enemy only knew two of the warp points in the Twins the task group commander's plan was to send his scouts to ferret out any sign of the enemy while taking station at the halfway point between the WPs in question. Factor in the speed of the Stilettos, along with the location of the task group's warp point, then any Abom convoy stood the good chance of being intercepted and destroyed. As much as he liked to linger over such thoughts of impending action Fanmet closed the file and resumed his work on the next operational exercise problem for his crews.
*********
Davke thought he seen his share of newbies screwing up exercise problems when armed pinnaces were first introduced into the fleet. He counted himself among those newbies, despite his extensive training in piloting small craft, especially assault shuttles, his acknowledged specialty. What he saw passing for a simulated attack on a small enemy convoy, actually a Tzelan task element heading back to Battlement after picking up fighters here in Kerama Retto, made his blood boil and engendered a feeling to wretch over the display screen of his Apin, the Wholly Mackerel. He had seen the initial Valhallan pinnace crews practice before the assault on Battlement, finding their skill up to the task. As for this batch of crews...
Pavami stole his boss’s thunder, finger pointing to a spot in the compact holoimager located on the flightdeck. “Look at that! An entire squadron came to a stop in a simulated battleground, and in formation no less. They must’ve had some training to achieve that maneuver. You suppose it’s meant to confuse the enemy?” His voice make it clear that he was being sarcastic, for Davke wasn’t looking at the holoimager but at the main flatscreen at the Whale’s pilot station.
Davke itched to open a can of beer he had stowed in the hollowed-out portion of his seat. It was the last one of the initial batch of Sargasso Seaweed Beer he bought for his Blue Whales squadron, based on the tender
Curtys. It was to be drunk after surviving the next warp point assault. He resisted, but the temptation was strong to drink the beer after these newbies complete at least one successful exercise. That as well may have been wishing for Kerama Retto's twin blue supergiants to turn into brown dwarfs. He went back watching and listening to the comm net, his big Terpla'n eyes pulsing with each glaring mistake made by the Valhallan crews, just waiting for the right tripwire to be sprung in his mind. His wait wasn't a long one. Keying the override, his voice was heard in every Whale armed pinnace, regardless of crew composition, and the briefing rooms aboard the tenders.
"Congratulations," he said in the most composed voice possible, hoping that the translation programs would make his inflected sarcasm noticeable. "Never in the history of the armed pinnace program have I've seen such a performance, both in practice and actual combat. Given the size of your opponent, and the composition of the strike force, at most your losses would've been 20%. All of you can take perverse pride in knowing that you sustained 100% losses, the first such instance in any Allied nation that makes use of armed pinnaces. Even better, the simulated enemy took minimal losses and sustained minor damage, and most of that was done to easily restored shields. You know what I hate worse than witnessing this spectacle that passed for an exercise today? It's sending letters of condolence to families saying that their sons and daughters died because they were stupid. So you all better get on those red biped knees of yours and give thanks to your gods that this wasn't actual combat. I swear, lungfish would make better Whale crews in comparison.
"I know that you were shipped here by transport, and practiced with simulators in the time it took to get to Kerama Retto. Those replacement strikefighter pilots that came with you are practically aces compared to what I witnessed today, and they had the same length of training and time in the simulators too. Today it's clear that wasn't enough, proving to me that your initial training back at Valhalla was rushed. There's no excuse for that, sending crews that barely know how to operate their craft to a war zone. With all the damage landing cradles in the past few days, including on my beloved veteran
Curtys, you all handled your Apins like ham-fisted refuse cutter pilots, which leads me to believe that you were all trained by ham-fisted refuse cutter pilots. If I encounter any of those Valhallan instructors, even if its decades from now, I'm going to punch them in the mouth.
"The slate will be wiped clean. You're all going to have remedial training to operate your Apins the way they should be, not as the garbage scowls as you were taught initially. The Apin will become your religion, with me as its leading prophet. You're only going to see combat until I'm satisfied you're ready, or on the direct orders of the CNO and your King Russen. So help me, when time comes to send all of you out into the cold ocean that is the universe your red skins would turn blue in the interim. There will be no time to go to the rec centers other than for strictly supervised meals. The beer, and I do mean all of it, especially your Valhallan brands will be impounded on the bases and tenders with the only key in the possession of the Commodore." Davke paused for a moment to imagine the collective groans and anguished gasps from the pinnace crews. "Any weasely attempts to get beer will result in having it flushed out into space. And my crews, boys and girls, like their beer, so you better stay on the level. We're going back to the bases, but no-one is allowed to land on the tenders. There's more than enough life support to make the trip, and you're not going to damage any more landing cradles on the tenders. You can bust up the cradles on the bases, and you'll be responsible for repairing them while the hanger crews get to play games on your crafts' computers. Given the way you all performed out there today I swear that you were playing games and had the computers do the work."
About to key out the mic, Davke had one more thing to say. "Until there's definite improvement no-one at the anchorage will get to see the first five episodes of Return to the Planet of the Khanates. So there's your motivation to improve if any, and if I find out that someone pirates a copy from a ship or pinnace transiting to Battlement I will come down on them like a kiloton of bricks. Davke out."
Pavami blinked his eyes. “And here I thought you were only going to revoke their ice cream privileges.”
********
Despite being a new, purpose-built naval auxiliary, to Fanmet's eye the bridge on the
Falconer looked like it belonged on a merchant ship pressed into service. The defense console was more elaborate as well as the one devoted to sensors, and aside from that everything else wouldn't be out of place even on freighter hull one-fourth the size of this one. Fanmet was familiar with this, having served on a freighter-hulled transport, so it came as no surprise that the ship's captain, Larpon, had no chair specifically made for him. He used one of the generic chairs that ringed the central holoimager at the center of the circular room. Larpon, sitting in one of those chairs, simply motioned to Fanmet to sit next to him. He was only into formality when it was called for, and in this instance it wasn't required.
Larpon, after sustaining substantial injuries at the close of the Elotoshani War, was made an AFC reserve officer and became a freighter captain for a chartered colonization service, the Better World Builders. At the start of the Nu'Chut AI War he wanted to reactive his commission, hoping to command a warship again, even if it was just a frigate. The AFC declined his request as they were younger officers anxious to get experience to call upon. Besides, the personnel board said, he was providing service to the Asteroid Axis for being a freighter captain just as surely as he would on a frigate. Larpon didn't feel patronized at all, not the least of which since his current pay was three times that what he earned in the Navy.
Attitudes changed in the current war, and once plans for the Mace armed pinnace were drawn up there was an acknowledged need for captains of the purpose-built pinnace tenders that would soon follow. So when the call came Larpon stepped forward, given the honor and privilege to command the lead ship of the Falconer class. He got to know Fanmet almost immediately as once the ship was commissioned the younger man's escort shuttle wing was embarked on the shuttlebay-filled hull. Their working relationship was akin to a mentoring, elderly uncle and a grown-up, appreciative nephew. It was in this frame of context that Larpon spoke. "I have some news," said the elder, the long gray strands of hair between the boney plates in his face moving from his breath. "Battlement has send word that the Aboms fleet in the system attempted to breach the ring of bases in the asteroid belt. Both sides sustained heavy fighter losses, but the Aboms, now positively identified as Valhallan, have pulled back."
"Battlement can easily make replacement Hatchets," Fanmet mused. 'The Aboms will have to call upon their fleet train to reinforce. If we're lucky, that could mean uncrating and prepping fighters. A time-consuming affair."
"True, Fanmet. If available, they could also call upon the fighters from other forces, especially if they have reserves in other, nearby systems. More helpful if pulled from convoy escorts." Larpon nodded, teasing a grey strand of hair under his chin. "This makes the Twins the right place for the prey we're looking from. From there one can go to Shunt, Electrical and then to Battlement. On the other side you have Chrome and Citadel. In the enemy's mind, Twins is far enough away from Battlement to be considered a safe, rear-area system yet close enough to Citadel to call for help should the need arise."
"So the odds of encountering and finding those reserves in the Twins have increased," Fanmet replied. "That, or we'll encounter packets of carriers, either empty or full, going between Battlement and Citadel."
"Exactly. Our task group commander has worked out the math. She predicts that by the time we enter the Twins system there will be an enemy presence, one way or another."
********
A close binary, Kerama Retto's twin blue supergiant suns were 12 light-minutes apart. Such as it was the inner shell of scanner and comm buoys were due to be replaced in a matter of weeks as the broad spectrum of energy hitting those tiny platforms would eventually overwhelm circuitry and cooling systems. There were no standing patrols conducted by anything smaller than an escort closer than 6 light minutes from either sun due for the same reasons. Other than that acknowledged environmental condition the sensor net covering the system was complete as far as 360 light-minutes from that point in space halfway between the suns.
The KRA, as the Kerama Retto Anchorage came to be known, was currently composed of six bases. One of them was a Lagoon-class BS5, having four repair/refit slips currently engaged in prepping fighters and pinnaces as well as repairing two Valhallan cruisers. Next was a Sea Wing BS6 pinnace platform, serving as a temporary home for those prepped pinnaces until such time they were called forward to the Valhallan fleet in Battlement. The remaining BS6 was a pure fighter platform, but nowhere near filled to capacity as carriers shuttled back and forth from Kerama Retto and Battlement to pick up fresh squadrons. Rounding out the anchorage were three missile-armed BS2s, six
Valthor scouts and a
Brawn class tug formed the assigned mobile elements of KRA.
The painfully young Valhallan Whale pinnace crews were treated to a regimen that many swore was devised by the minor demon Firespur instead of Davke. Each morning, one hour before the arbitrary denoted 'dawn', all the Valhallan crews were driven from their beds by the sound of an obnoxious horn played over the PA system by a E'sani Marine. Next came a group run aboard the pinnace base, five kilometers in all and made in full flight suit gear. Riding herd on these groups were Crajen pinnace mechanics in scooters, making menacing snipping sounds with their crusher claws when it looked like someone was slacking and dispensing witty barbs on those that foolishly tried to sass back. Then came a deliberately large breakfast, and keeping them on schedule were RVSN senior CPOs from the cruisers undergoing repairs at KRA. They told them in no uncertain terms that they resented being babysitters for a 'bunch of snot noses that couldn't tell the difference between their asses and a hole in the ground.' If one should be found still having food on their plate, or giving food to a tablemate when the time was up they were forced to explain themselves over the PA why it happened and how it was essential to have the proper amount of caloric intake at the start of the day.
After breakfast came a one-hour lecture by Davke via holoimager into the base ready rooms. The subjects of these lectures varied greatly, from the sublime to the pertinent. The rooms were kept in dim light, and woe to the one that was found nodding off or worse yet, snoring. Davke's holographic image would 'walk' to the offender and, highlighted by a spotlight manned by a base crewmember, make the sleepyhead recite the flight checklist. An error would result in push-ups. Some early lecture times were almost composed entirely of push-ups with the heavy breakfasts being credited as the prime cause.
Following the lectures were 30 minutes of calisthenics to get people to chase away the sleepies, and then two hours of simulator time followed by two hours of cross-training. Lunch was a generous one hour, followed by another hour devoted to Apin maintenance. At the end of that came mandatory hour of cleaning the craft, the simulators and the bays there were stationed in. More than one devious inspector made stains or other messes magically appear in spots that were hiding in plain sight if a crew was suspected of cheating or not, consigning yet another hour of often back-straining labor.
The remainder of the afternoon was free time, and after dinner one-fourth of the crews participated in combat exercises, sans live ordnance, while the rest attended sponsored university-accredited classes. At the close of the day, one half-hour before lights out, was the required reading of a combined history text and 'motivational material' that Davke compiled and found necessary in his point of view. Ancient Valhallan military history was dominated by land armies as their homeworld only had small, landlocked seas. Thus there was almost nothing in the way of a naval patrol bomber background that pre-space Terpla'n military history had in abundance. By this text the Valhallan learned the daring exploits of Terpla'n crews flying land-based bombers, seaplanes and flying boats in the age of steam, oil, and nuclear power. When the inevitable wiseacre questioned the relevance of such a text, well... one could say the bodily waste receptacles on Oyster-Cove 02 were the cleanest in the anchorage that particular week.
Incorporating an element of the unexpected Davke never announced if he would participate in any particular live exercise or the Whale he'll be on. Sometimes he arrived just before launching and board a randomly-selected Valhallan-crewed Whale and sat in the rumble seat behind the command pilot. He didn't input anything in his datapad, committing everything he saw and heard to memory. When something happened that met his criteria he patted the Valhallan pilot in front of him on the shoulder, a sign of job well done. If he didn't like something, he made his thoughts know. "No, no, no." Those words came out during one particularly intense exercise. He didn't bother using the translation program as the crew had a fairly good grasp of Terpla'n at this point. It was the apin's co-pilot that evoked Davke to speak. "A Whale isn't a truck and shouldn't be treated as such. Like its namesake, a Whale is powerful, purposeful, and maneuverable in its environment. This is not the pimped-out tour boat you remember from your elementary school trip to an asteroid. Treat it like a big fighter that it is and revel in its power. Don't take any waste the fighter jocks dish out. You tell them up in their faces, even if they're E'sani, that one has to tough to fly the heavies."
"Yessir," said the co-pilot, relieved that was what Davke had to say instead of a dressing down he expected for that botched maneuver that prompted his truck comment.
"Good. Now take us back to the cove and this time don't mess up the 'beaching gear' like you did last time."
"Yessir." It was true. Like the whales of his home planet Davke never forgets.
