Chapter Thirty-One (1/2)

Admiral Yamamoto stood on the deck of his flagship, watching the repairs to his ships through the main viewscreen. Sure, he could transfer the feed from the various satellites to his implants but there was something about sitting in his command cradle and watching it on the viewscreen.

The Super-Carrier Days Night Darkly had taken a couple of broadsides when its main repulsor fields had gone down and the engineers weren't sure if it wouldn't just be better to rebuild it from the ground up. The ship's AI, Scanning Dark Nights, had been killed when its supercoolant had boiled away and two thirds of its crew were either dead or needed extensive biomatter reconstruction. Worse, its SUDS rack had taken a hit and it lost the recent mental engram backups of its pilots. He looked over the damage to the superstructure and computer systems and slated it for reclamation.

The superdreadnaught Tiger Tiger had taken a barrage across the upper decks, wiping out the guns, with one lucky shot hitting the medbay. It could be repaired. He signed off on bringing it back up to fighting condition.

The Arizona had, of course, taken a hit directly to the magazines and had damn near broken in half. Yamamoto shook his head. He never understood why ships with that name kept being commissioned. A quick query of his datalink told him that every single one commissioned since the US/Japanese Hawaii Incident had taken a hit directly to the magazines that gutted the ship. He sighed, signed off on the write-off, and moved on.

On TerraSol's shipyards a new Arizona was commissioned within a year.

The Lucky Shamrock had been boarded but had repelled the boarders after some fierce fighting. Yamamoto looked over the ship's specs and ordered the shipboard marines be replaced by Confed Marines, thought for a second, then sent out the orders that all shipboard marines would be replaced by Confed Marine Corps service members for the duration. All shipboard marines would be moved to other duties.

One of the Adaptus Cruisers, I See You, had taken serious damage and was dead in the water. It's computer system was still working but not responding to signals. It was surrounded by debris and recon drones showed that the resource scavenger pods from it were busy scavenging materials. Yamamoto ordered it destroyed by standoff weapons followed by omnidirectional plasma bursts, marked it as priority, and sent it off. Those things could go real lethal real fast.

The list of damaged ships went on and on, but Yamamoto didn't see anything that couldn't be handled by the XO or any of his other officers still in the queue. He gave a heaving sigh and turned away from the display to see his XO standing by the elevator. The Treana'ad looked tired to Yamamoto but it was understandable. It had taken almost four Terran standard days to flush the last of the Precursor machines from the system and the fighting on the ground on several of the outer planets, barren of everything but resources, was going on fast and furious.

The Terran Marine commander had reported casualties within the low side of the expected amounts.

”These machines can't fight worth shit,” was all he'd put in the remarks section.

Admiral Yamamoto had a shipyard's worth the new construction orders that put lie to that. But then, the Marine Colonel had different standards and ground combat was different than space combat. A Marine warborg missing both legs and an arm would redesignate himself as ”MATT” and keep shooting with his onboard weaponry. A ship missing its engines was basically a kill.

Yamamoto found himself snorting at his own joke when the computer reminded him that Marines were often referred to as ”crayon eaters” and presented him a badly scribbled picture of the Marine Colonel done in crayon.

Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Michi Kaka-lakik watched his CO carefully, noting the exhaustion in the human's movements. He queried the computer and found out that that the Admiral had missed his last sleep cycle.

”Any status changes?” Yamamoto asked his XO, triggering a stim.

”The wog... I mean, the locals want to talk to you,” Michi answered, giving the best approximation of a human shrug. Like many Treana'ad in the Confederate military, he found human vocal tones and body movements pleasing to emulate.

Michi's first combat action as a ship's Captain he had stood on the bridge yelling ”GET SOME, MOTHERFUCKERS! GET SOME!” at the pirate ships in his best imitation of a human's voice and it was the best memory of his life. He could still smell the stale odor of the armored vac-suit, feel the slight tickle from one of the fans of the ancient suit's air circulation system, and the knowing chuckle of his XO.

”Let me guess, they're objecting that I'm following Unified Population Council directorates and sending all non-essential citizens of the Unified Civilized Races out of the system,” Yamamoto said, leaning against Com-7's station.

He and the XO were the only beings in the armored Fleet Combat Control Center.

”They've gratefully thanked us for driving out the robots and are now asking we leave,” Michi answered. ”They say they have it under control and have reminded us that this planet is property of some industrial concern.”

”There's a native species, right?” Yamamoto asked.

”Yes, sir. A small species of lemur, about half the size of a human, furry, tails, opposable thumbs. Looks like they got to radio transmission and the industrial concerns rolled in an took over their system,” The XO answered. ”Which, sir, presents us a problem.”

Yamamoto nodded, feeling the stim course through his veins, pushing away fatigue. His implant warned him that he was at the max for stim injection outside of combat action. ”That it does, One, that it does.”

Michi checked the ships computer for a split second, looking over Confederate legal codes again. ”By our own laws, the possession of the planet defaults to the gensis species. By these Unified goobers,” Michi loved that word. How it was grossly sticky and brought into mind grub-mucus. ”Think that because they came in and surpressed these guys and rebuilt their worlds and enslaved the species that makes the world theirs.”

Yamamoto sighed again. ”What does JAG say? And please don't call our hosts goobers.”

”Yes, sir,” Michi answered. He shifted slightly to signify a return to the subject. ”The Unified Civilized Species are not treaty or agreement bonded. They've barely opened up diplomatic channels and it is the opinion of JAG that the best bet the Navy can do is to follow our own laws and regulations.”

”Which means turning the system over to the original species once the fighting is over,” Yamamoto said. He shook his head. ”And as soon as we leave, the Unified Corporate Council will just roll these little guys over again,” He looked at his datalink. Not much was known about them except for their physical appearance. There DNA code had a note next to it that the species had been genetically altered in the past to reduce aggression and make them more pliable. ”This is a mess, One.”

”That's why you get paid the big buck, sir,” Michi said, tossing up a couple of amusement icons.

”All right. Space Force is on the way. The Navy is on its own till the big boys get here. We'll ask the locally evolved sapient species if we can start building a starbase here. This system is the leading edge of that wedge of Precursor trash flowing out of the Great Gulf and the last thing we want is the Precursors rolling up and reminding everyone that they had first claim on this system back before the dinosaurs got their skulls caved in,” Yamamoto said, turning to look at the viewscreen again. ”We're banged up pretty...”

The lights switched to red and Yamamoto got the implant alert at the same time as Captain Naxton ordered all crew to action stations over the intercom.

”Now what?” Yamamoto asked, moving to his crash couch. The ship's medical VI lifted the lockdown on stims for the Admiral but dedicated a code string to watching the biological's vitals.

”Unknown, sir,” The XO said, moving over to his own crash couch.

Fleet readiness status started flashing up. Only a fifth of the fleet's ships had been on standby, the rest undergoing refit, rearming, or repair. The crews had been exhausted and Yamamoto hoped that the crews had used their rest periods more wisely than he himself had done as an ensign.

Yeah, why don't you wish for a pony too, he thought to himself.

Icons started shifting from green to yellow, from yellow to amber, from amber to the crimson icon of full readiness.

Guys, you aren't fooling anyone, He thought, watching as the icon for the Arizona went blue with a red ring to just red. The icon started to shift, get into formation, and he shook his head. The ship's AI notified him that the Arizona was under local control, with only VI's, without the ship AI, and that it was not combat effective and should be ordered to shut back down.

Yamamoto told the AI to relax, if the Arizona wanted to fight, well...

Nearly eighteen hundred points had jumped into the system, arriving outside the jumpspace boundary and rapidly heading in-system. They had gathered up in a combat formation, a long wide line, only two ships deep and five ships high, spread out in a razor sharp line. The ships were all less than a mile from one another, dangerously close for space combat.

Looking over the formation Yamamoto curled his lip slightly. That formation had gone out with the invention of the man portable self-loading chemical projectile rifle. If it was meant for combat then whoever was in those ships was about to get a lesson in modern warfare tactics.

”Somewhere, some Space Force strategic officer's head just exploded inside his vac-suit,” Michi said, clicking his laughter.

”I think the ships AI's strategy and tactics coding is having a stroke,” Yamamoto chuckled as the personnel flooded into the fleet tactical bridge. Yamamoto could feel the air being pulled back into storage, to be pressurized and frozen into slush.

That's not funny, the ship's AI said primly though Yamamoto's link.

”Get whoever that is on the com,” Yamamoto ordered.

Captain Naxton had ordered the ships to get underway, let the formation shake out as they figured out which ships were still action capable and which ones weren't.

The Arizona was claiming to have full secondary magazines and that it had repaired and reloaded the primary magazine that had been hit during the battle.

The Fleet AI checked, loading into the Arizona's memory cores. The ship's AI's death screams were still rippling through the computer systems, but the AI could ignore it. It looked at the repair and damage control logs.

The Arizona's captain had ordered the magazines and the feed systems prioritized even over repairing environmentals. Only gravitics had been put on the same weight for the ship's deadbrain damage repair systems. The Combat Gestalt for the ship was a whirling nightmare but as far the AI was concerned, that was normal. The shields were all up, the engines at 100%, and the Fleet AI could hear the anticipation in the crew's comlinks.

The Fleet AI disconnected and reported to the Admiral that even though you could see whatever was on the other side of the Arizona in four places its engines, shielding, and guns were at full capacity.

Yamamoto watched as the other fleet came into the system. The ships were unidentified types, all jumpspace engines, the ships were slow and lumbering with low acceleration curves and what appeared to be fairly low inertial and gravitic compensators.

The recon probes, stealthed and sneaky, whispered back across point to point FTL links and the data started streaming in. The Fleet AI blinked and double-checked, then sighed and sent it to tactical.

You have to be kidding me, Verthimax, the Tactical AI replied.

Nope. No tricks, Gamelon, the Fleet AI answered.

The new ships were of unknown type, unknown paint scheme, unknown IFF beacons, but they all had names on them that fit within the Unified Civilized Races lexicons as well as using Unified characters for the names. Scans showed they were crewed by only two of the Unified Civilized Races species. Weapons were scanned, laughed at by the VI's on the recon probes, then scanned again and the specs transmitted to Fleet with giggling laughing tachyons.

This is going to be a slaughter if these guys get stupid, Tactical/Gamelon said, examining shield strength and armor thickness.

Why is it that everyone looks at humans and thinks 'oh, I can beat these guys. All 10,000 of those other guys just didn't think magical thoughts well enough' or whatever it is mentally defective beings think right before the jump the Terrans? The ship's AI for the CSV Arthur Layon asked.

They all think 'oh, it'll be different THIS time' right before they pull the trigger, the AI for the CSV P'Thok snickered. It threw up a picture of a cartoon duck with its feathers blown off its head, staring at the barrels of a weapon in exasperated boredom.

And it always goes the same way, the AI for the CSV Hobo with a Shotgun laughed, sending a picture of that same little black duck stomping a genie back into its lamp.

Well, we thought we could take them. Twice, the CSV No uWu Zone laughed. We, oh beings of logic and science, looked at a hyperventilating gigantic hairless ape with chainsword arms and a massive erection and went 'oh, let's get naked, slather our orifices in lubricant, and then fist-fight that!' instead of backing away slowly.

That resulted in a ripple of laughter from the AI's, the discussion only taking a few seconds. When the laughter died down they all wished each other luck and went back to the shepherding their ships.

”Ships have been identified as belonging to the Unified Corporate Council,” Tac-7 called out.

Yamamoto raised an eyebrow. What do these morons want? The battle's over.