Live Free or Die, Second Edition, page 44
“If they reach your system I hope you have something that can stop them. Troy, alone, will not be enough.
“May peace be with us all. But I fear it will not. Good luck, my friend.”
“Anything additional?” Tyler asked, pulling out the crystal. He walked over to his desk, took out a small hammer and crushed the atacirc.
“No, sir,” Temar said. “By the time we returned through the system, the traces were gone. There is a Horvath battle cruiser on station but it didn’t even hail us.”
“How long do you think we can keep getting shipments through?” Tyler asked.
“The estimate is that the Horvath will not engage Glatun ships absent a declaration of war with the Rangora,” Temar said. “But if we go to war with the Rangora, it can be assumed the Horvath will see us as an enemy.”
“Glatun could trash the entire Horvath system in a day,” Tyler said.
“But we would not do so,” Temar said. “The Benefactors would never approve a simple annihilation raid.”
“The Horvath are a poor, weak, oppressed polity that need comfort and care to bring them to a civilized condition?” Tyler asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And Earth?”
“Is a militaristic system bent on regional control,” Temar said. “Its most notable personages are all atavistic barbarians. Probably it would be better under Horvath control.”
“Is that a consensus?” Tyler asked.
“No,” Temar said. “But the consensus of those who see the Horvath as poor and oppressed. Those factions would never have allowed this technology transfer. Fortunately…they do not control such things.”
“We’d better get the transfer finished, then,” Tyler said. “I’ll personally carry the data to the Wolf system. Granadica can probably use it better than anyone in Sol. And it will be more secure there. We’ll hold the AIs on Troy. We needed one, anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
ELEVEN
“Faster,” Tyler muttered.
“Sir?” Byron asked, considering the progress of the mine with satisfaction.
Both washers were in place, the lower held up by what, from the distance the Starfire maintained, seemed the thinnest of strands. Single-strand carbon nanotube was incredibly strong stuff, but the strands weren’t nearly as thin as they looked. Each was nearly a foot across, woven and rewoven about from individual strands thinner than a bacterium. Humans had finally cracked extruding continuous strands of carbon monomolecules. What defeated them, so far, was doing it as simply as the Glatun spinners, which moved at a rate of nearly forty feet per minute.
“I was just thinking,” Tyler said. “This is going very well, Byron. How soon can we start installation of the separation equipment?”
“We’re not even ready to start weaving the pipes, sir,” Byron said. “The lines can only hold so much weight at this point. We’ll need to spin more lines before we can start doing the actual mine portion.”
“Think about ways to get around that,” Tyler said. “We’re running out of time.”
“Sir?” Audler said, frowning and taking his pipe out. “We’re well ahead of schedule.”
“Byron,” Tyler said quietly. “In no more than two years, maybe less, the Rangora and Glatun are going to get into a war that will dwarf anything that this region has seen in a thousand years. How that war is going to go is a big question. But one thing that’s certain is that the Horvath are going to take the opportunity to cut Earth off from Glatun support. We’ve got the construction help we needed. We can build ships on our own. We can mine asteroids. We can build some pretty fair lasers and we have the SAPL. We can build anything we need and we can defend the Sol System pretty well and keep the enemy out of Wolf. If we have fuel.”
“Oh,” Byron said, putting his pipe back in and chewing on it. Tyler wasn’t sure he ever actually smoked it.
“Get your team together and brainstorm,” Tyler said. “We’ve got permission to make as many spinners as we want. We can make anything that Gorku has on its database. Get with Granadica and see about priorities because it’s about to get really busy.”
* * *
“Steren’s not exactly happy being in the Wolf system,” Tom Schneider said, looking out the crystal wall of the Starfire. “There’s not much to do. And the medical facilities are…”
“State of the art but rough and ready?” Tyler said.
“I was about to say ‘not designed around the pregnant daughter of the system owner screaming at the doctors.’ But I’m far too polite.”
Tom was not the head of Apollo mining in the Wolf system. His title was “Special Project Manager, Wolf 359 Division.” The fact that he was the son-in-law of the boss had nothing to do with the fact that when he asked for anything he got it. But there was a reason that Tyler had put him in the position.
“She, and you, are safer in Wolf than in the Sol System,” Tyler said. “And there’s going to be more room to move around once some more habitats get made. The mine’s going to have plenty of room to move around. I’ll get you guys a little bungalow in the clouds.”
“It will be pretty,” Tom said. “But what’s the point of us looking at this asteroid?”
“It’s about the right size,” Tyler said. “And the right composition. I want you to spin process it and get it down to iron and a bit of nickel. Then do a seal wrap like the washers. When you’ve got steel, make a shell about the size of Granadica.”
“Which will be for…?” Tom said.
“That is the next conversation,” Tyler said.
* * *
“Granadica?” Tyler said.
“You called?” the AI said, forming a hologram of a Glatun head in the Starfire.
“How are the repairs going?” Tyler asked.
“Just about done,” Granadica said happily. “I don’t exactly feel young, but I feel younger than I’ve felt in a while. I even got the rust smell out of the air processors. That took some time to run down.”
Tyler was pretty sure it was just there to remind the users that the fabber was old. If it had really gotten the taste out of the air it was feeling young. Which might be good and might be bad.
“You got the updates from Gorku?” Tyler asked. “Are they really the releases we need?”
“They got the whole packet,” Granadica said. “Terra, or rather the LFD Corporation, is now authorized to produce anything that Gorku had in its designs and patents database. Including military grade drives, weapons and inertics.”
“Which is great,” Tyler said. “Except we don’t have the production capacity to use the data. Which brings me to my next question. You were using thirty percent of your capacity to do repairs. How much capacity would it take you to produce another ship fabber in, oh, about a year?”
“You want me to twin?” Granadica said dubiously. “Some of it I can’t make. The shell, especially. Pretty much everything else I can make in a year or so using…oh, twenty percent of my capacity. If I have the materials. You need another fabber?”
“Troy does,” Tyler said. “Yes. It needs a fabber to produce grav plates and drives, power plants, ships and especially missiles.”
“The last one is the easiest,” Granadica said. “There’s a Glatun design of medium missile that fits pretty close to the Boeing Mjolnir specs. I can pump out a fabber that will be able to make missiles from raw materials in about a month. The output will be about…five missiles per hour.”
“That…works,” Tyler said. “Can they fly themselves to the bays?”
“Oh, yeah,” Granadica said. “Easy.”
“I still think Troy needs a fabber,” Tyler said. “Does it bother you making a twin? I’d think of it more as a child.”
“You’re human,” Granadica said. “No, it doesn’t bother me that you want another fabber. I’m an AI. We don’t have feelings.”
“Granadica,” Tyler said, nearly using the nickname that hovered in the back of his mind every time he talked to the AI. “Things are about to get very bad. I know you’ve been looking at the strategic situation.”
“I’ll admit that things don’t look good, no,” the AI said.
“Churchill, who was one of our great war-leaders, once said that the first year of a war you have nothing that you need, the second year you have half of what you need and the third you have all that you need, you just can’t use it. In some cases, it’s too late to use it. I don’t want another fabber. Sol needs another fabber. And when that one is done, we’re going to need a third. And a fourth. And a fifth.”
“So you want me to churn out fabbers,” Granadica said. “Just sit here in this system and churn out newer, competing, fabbers with all the latest gimmicks.”
Tyler sat and thought about it for a moment.
“Granadica, I know AIs don’t have feelings,” he said. “But if you did, would you like humans?”
“Most of them,” Granadica said. “Some of them are idiots.”
“Agreed,” Tyler said, grinning suddenly. “But, in general, would you say that you’d prefer that we not be wiped out of existence? Or, to put it another way, are you looking forward to a wipe to basic personality and then working for the Horvath?”
“I’ll get to work on that fabber,” Granadica said.
It was all about levers.
* * *
Tyler checked the telltales on the air lock, then opened the door. One exposure to vacuum was all he ever wanted to experience. And while getting out in Granadica or the Monkey Business was one thing, Shuttle Bay One of the Troy had been built by the lowest bidder.
“Mr. Vernon, welcome to the Troy,” Admiral Jack Kinyon said. The two-star commander of the Troy was of a size for it, standing nearly seven feet tall and probably pushing weight limit. He carried it well.
“Been around it a good bit,” Tyler said, sniffing the air, then shaking the admiral’s hand. “Sort of been hoboing in your bay, to tell you the truth. This is just the first time I’ve gotten out of a shuttle or ship.”
“I had heard we had some homeless people hanging around,” the admiral said, grinning. “But I understand there’s a nice little compartment that somehow got slipped into the plans on the civilian side. Something about a three-thousand-square-foot apartment with a view of the bay?”
“Hey, I built the damned thing,” Tyler said. “I figured I deserved a vacation get-away. The commander of the Monkey Business has also been making noises about how much room I’m taking up. I figure you’ve got the room.”
“I suppose there’s that,” the admiral said. “And if I may introduce my senior officers?”
“Please,” Tyler said, nodding to the group.
“Commodore Kurt Pounders,” Kinyon said, trooping the line. “Chief of Staff.”
“Sir,” the commodore said. He was nearly as tall as his boss, but rail thin with a shock of black hair cut fairly long for the military.
“Commodore,” Tyler said, shaking his hand. “I hope you have a good support team. Operations on this thing are going to be interesting.”
“Which brings us to Colonel Raymond Helberg,” Admiral Kinyon said. “Chief of Operations.”
“Sir,” the colonel said. He had a faint English accent. Tyler had heard that some of the crew and officers were from NATO units.
“Definitely got your work cut out for you,” Tyler said, shaking his hand.
“We endeavor to provide, sir,” the colonel said.
“Commodore Russell Marchant,” the admiral continued. “Commander of Task Force One.”
“Commodore,” Tyler said, shaking his hand.
“Sir.” The true “Navy” commander in charge of the Constitution cruisers and Independence frigates was medium height with pale blond hair and just as pale blue eyes. “This is one heck of a big platform. I’m not even sure what my group is going to do.”
“Anything that requires moving, Commodore,” Tyler said, chuckling. “The Troy isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”
“Captain James Sharp,” the admiral continued. “Chief tactical officer.”
“We throw rocks.” The captain was black as an ace of spades and tall enough to have played college basketball. “And poke people with flashlights.”
“I’ll tell my people not to charge you for practice time with the SAPL,” Tyler said, grinning. “You’re going to have to pay for the missiles.”
“I understand we’re getting a missile fabber?” the tactical officer said.
“In about a month,” Tyler said. “There may be more. It’s the usual problem of balancing infrastructure and actual equipment. For that matter, it will be a general fabber. So your bosses will have to decide how much of it goes to infrastructure versus weapons.”
“We could use more missiles,” Admiral Kinyon said. “That’s for sure. Captain Chris DiNote, commander of the assault boat wing.”
“We deliver the mail, sir,” the captain said, shaking Tyler’s hand. “When we have shuttles.”
“They’re on their way,” Tyler said. “Until recently we were calling them emergency rescue shuttles because marine landing craft would have twigged the antimilitary design functions of Granadica. They’re being redesignated as Myrmidons. Still the same capabilities for the time being. But we’ll have about one a day coming in any time now.”
“Looking forward to it,” the captain said. “There’s a training group down at Great Lakes doing work-ups. It’s going to be interesting.”
“I heard the Navy was insisting on enlisted personnel as pilots?” Tyler said.
“They’re boats,” the admiral said, shrugging. “Boats aren’t run by officers. So, yes, the majority of the drivers will be coxwains.”
“That will be interesting,” Tyler said, raising an eyebrow.
“And the customer for Captain DiNote’s boats,” the admiral finished. “Colonel Daniel Bolger, USMC.”
“Sir,” the colonel said, nodding sharply.
“Have you tried out the micrograv ball court, Colonel?” Tyler asked.
“Yes, sir,” the colonel replied gruffly. “It was a very interesting experience.”
“I figured that if your personnel are going to be working in microgravity, it helped to have a place to get in practice that wasn’t…practice if you know what I mean. Training doesn’t always have to be serious. The more time they spend in microgravity…” Tyler trailed off since the colonel seemed to be suffusing a bit. He wasn’t sure what he’d said…
“The colonel may be less than enthusiastic because the first platoon that tried it ended up with half a dozen serious injuries,” the admiral said dryly.
“Oh,” Tyler said. “Sorry.”
“We’re installing more padding, sir,” the colonel said, his jaw working. “That’s been a pretty interesting evolution as well. Superglue doesn’t work the same way in microgravity as it does in gravity.”
Tyler tried not to wince. Nothing liquid or semi-liquid worked the same in microgravity as it did on Earth.
“Everything about Troy has been a learning experience, Colonel,” Tyler said.
“Second Platoon learned pretty quick that weight isn’t the same as mass,” the colonel said. “No pain, no gain, sir.”
“And arguably the most important part of my command staff is still unable to be visually present in this bay,” the admiral said, raising his voice. “Paris?”
“Here, sir,” the AI replied from a PA box. “Welcome to Troy, Mr. Vernon. I will endeavor to do a better job than my predecessor.”
“The big mistake of the Trojans was meeting the Achaeans outside the walls,” Tyler said. “Let’s not make the same mistake.”
“Not a chance,” Admiral Kinyon said, grinning. “I don’t plan to fight fair. With your permission, sir, I’ve arranged for a dining-out later. Yourself, the officers of the Troy and some of the senior civilian contractors.”
“Sounds good,” Tyler said, blinking. “I’m free this evening.”
“In the meantime,” the admiral said. “I’d like to let these gentlemen get back to their duties and I thought we could go inspect some of the more…interesting aspects of the design.”
“Okay,” Tyler said, trying not to gulp.
“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, nodding at the group. “Until later.”
* * *
“And here we have the air mixing chamber,” the admiral said, opening up the inner hatch.
All of Troy didn’t yet have lifts or grav walks. The walk from the shuttle bays to the air recycling system had been nearly a mile. Tyler hadn’t walked that far in years.
And then there were the stairs.
The air mixing chamber, because it was slightly over-pressured, had an air-lock system to enter. Sort of. There were two hatches to get through. But it wasn’t a full air lock. More like a slightly more secure version of the sort of doors you found on big stadiums.
Beyond the door was a small patio with a waist-high railing. The whole thing was cut from solid nickel iron and Tyler could see some actual bobbles from the lasers. But, overall, it was pretty solid. Good enough for government work.
Beyond the railing was the main mixing chamber which was a five-hundred-meter-high, two-hundred-meter-diameter cylinder with more “patios” every six stories or so, stretching up from the base to the top. The admiral had trekked to a platform about midway and the view was more than spectacular. The gravity was also a bit low. While the platform had its own grav plates, the main chamber was under one-sixth gravity. You had to be careful not to hop over the railing. You’d definitely die from the fall.
It was also, unsurprisingly, windy. The air shot upwards and ruffled Tyler’s beard.
“Very nice view?” Tyler said.
“Yes, it is,” the admiral said. “Also, I might add, very interesting design. Some of the civilian contractors… Ah, a demonstration.”
A man was flying up the chamber wearing a “squirrel suit” with textile “wings” spreading from ankle to wrist. As Tyler watched, he banked around in an arc and then up and back and around…
“Your point, Admiral?” Tyler asked. “I mean, if he works for me I can probably circulate a memo…”
