COMM ID:LCDR HARTMAN, Jane TARGET ID:LIBEASTCOM SUBJECT:Connection Request ENCRYPTION:Moderate PRIORITY:Moderate
Sir/Ma’am,
I, Jane Hartman NF-124307, hereby request realtime subspace communications access for a period of thirty minutes on a date no later than the 27th of November 822A.S. Proposed contact will be a representative of the Admiralty or ESRD via LIBCENTCOM or other suitable relay as nominated by LIBEASTCOM. Subject of the conversation is RESTRICTED and will be disclosed to the appointed representative once I receive advice of their identity.
Respectfully,
Jane Hartman
LCDR (Res.)
1FLT
Important:This communication remains the property of the Liberty Defence Forces and is subject to the jurisdiction of the Neural Net Communications Act 807A.S, Section 30. If you have received this message in error, you are requested to contact the sender and delete the communication.
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- - - -TRANSMISSION INITIATED - - - -
COMM ID:FADM DAVIES, Nathaniel TARGET ID:LCDR HARTMAN, Jane SUBJECT:RE: Connection Request ENCRYPTION:MILSPEC L-904 PRIORITY:Moderate
Hartman,
I apologize for the delay. Some ensign so green you could smell West Point's air recyclers coming off his suit decided that your request was "very low priority" and shuffled it in with some old logistics papers.
But I digress. Normally I'd wave off a request like yours, but it's obviously important enough that you made the call to begin with. And, to be frank, anything you consider worth calling for is something I bet is worth listening to.
I'm sending you an encrypted packet. Enclosed are the authentication keys necessary to connect to the VIR-SS subspace network. I've also cleared up three hours on the 21st, dedicated solely for this event, and I'll act as the sole representative for the Admiralty and the ESRD.
Let's talk, Commander.
Nathaniel Davies
FADM
CO 1FLT
Important:This communication remains the property of the Liberty Defence Forces and is subject to the jurisdiction of the Neural Net Communications Act 807A.S, Section 30. If you have received this message in error, you are requested to contact the sender and delete the communication.
Fourteen days since the past had jumped her on a forest trail, and the brass was finally ready to talk to Lieutenant Commander Jane Hartman. Her mirrored parade shoes beat an unsteady rhythm on the asphalt, a steady rolling crunch that wasn’t quite a march, no matter how she traced the beat in her head. A younger officer would’ve been equal parts flattered and terrified that the Fleet Admiral himself had agreed to speak to her. Hell, before Leeds, she would have been the same, but Hartman had earned and lost her own stars since then, and instead she could only find a dull sort of relief, a guilty thanks that it wasn’t Lewis on the other end of the relay. Odds were that she was already lining her career up against the wall for the firing squad. God knew she didn’t want to stick her oldest friendship up there with it.
Delaware OCS’ comm building was a squat rectangle of plascrete and shielded conduit that jutted out from the eastern face of the base like a particularly well-disciplined tumour. The original building had been dropped from orbit nearly half a millennium ago, and while that structure had crumbled to rubble centuries before she had been born, the architectural style, if you could call aerodynamic brick a style, had made it into the holy book of naval policy. The relay could’ve belonged to any of the Navy’s dozen-odd planetside bases. If she had been asked, Hartman couldn’t have said when the uniformity had stopped being irritating and started being reassuring. She returned the salute of a sharp-faced marine sergeant at the hatch and pressed her ID into his waiting hands.
”Lieutenant Commander Hartman, for the Fleet Admiral.” Hartman offered. The MP gave a nod that indicated it was just about possible, turned the card over and frowned, evidently trying to match the weathered, orderly woman on Hartman’s ID with the scar-faced, buzz-cut officer in front of him.
”Hudson?” He grunted and handed the card back. The question went unspoken. Where did it happen? Hartman answered it anyway.
”Leeds.” Hartman said.
”F—ked you up good, huh?” The sergeant caught the look in Hartman’s eyes. ”No disrespect, ma’am. Fought in Hudson myself.” He thumped a fist against his right leg. The hollow ring of flesh on steel drifted across the courtyard, nearly lost beneath the distant thunder of a DI’s voice.
”Glad to hear it, sergeant.” Hartman reached out a hand, took her card, and deliberately slid it back into its holster as though it was something small and venomous. When she smiled, it was all teeth. ”And yes. I intend to return the favour.”
She stepped into the building and closed the hatch behind her. Officially, the Navy posted a larger than normal percentage of its combat veterans to training facilities so they had a chance to pass on valuable field experience. Hartman suspected it really provided a convenient dumping ground for old soldiers too stubborn to know when to quit. She shook her head, tossed the idea away. Wasn’t like it mattered. They could’ve offered her a post moving rocks on Pittsburgh with a private’s stripes and a hand shovel and she would’ve done it with a smile on her face if it meant she got to keep wearing the uniform. All considered, if private’s stripes were what she came out of the booth with today she’d count herself lucky to have them.
She found a booth, paused to let the biometrics confirm her identity, and punched in Davies’ code. Technically, she could have accessed the relay from any computer on the base network, but Hartman preferred to visit comms directly. Liked to kid herself it was safer that way. A request for authentication flashed on the screen, and she keyed in that too. Even that felt woefully inadequate as a security measure, but she went through the motions and the ready light flickered from red to amber, waiting on the connection from Fleet Admiral’s office.
All expected. The meeting wasn’t due to start for another ten minutes, and she filled the first five of them tidying her uniform, and the remainder checking and re-checking the relay’s security systems. Neither was necessary. She’d squared her cap and straightened her ribbons a half-dozen times before she left her quarters, and the base’s comms systems were verified daily by people far better qualified for it than a crippled line officer. But it kept her from thinking about what she was there to ask.
After what felt like an eternity the fluorescents in the ceiling faded to a dull glow, and Davies’ image flashed into being on the wall opposite, projectors on the walls and roof painting an illusion of depth accurate enough that the human eye couldn’t tell the difference. It was a trick of perspective, of course, and anyone standing at any other position in the small booth would have seen the image for the parlour trick it was, but it worked well enough for lone operators that the DoD had been able to put off shelling out for full holographic displays for nearly a decade now.
The commanding officer of the Liberty Navy wasn’t a particularly tall man, he had perhaps three inches on Hartman, but he had a way of filling any room he occupied. It wasn’t an aggressive presence, but it was one that drew attention the same way as a tapped glass at a formal dinner. He wore the same blues she did, albeit with an Admiral’s five-star constellation on his collar and a gold wreath lining his cap. His eyes gazed out of the hologram with an air of calm confidence that was only slightly spoiled by the dark lines clustering under them. Leeds had shattered plenty of good officers, but some had come out with iron burned into their souls. Davies fell into the later camp.
”Sir.” Hartman snapped a salute. Davies had been her direct superior during the failed Leeds incursion, overall commander of half a dozen fleets. One of which had been hers. It was about the closest working relationship flag officers ever had in the field but, unlike some of his predecessors, Davies had never made any move to bridge the gap of formality and protocol. Friendly enough, but distant, always distant. In a navy where discipline had increasingly taken a back seat to pragmatism the man’s quiet professionalism had been a godsend. ”Appreciate you making the time.”
She paused, weighing words. They didn’t sound any better now than the first hundred times she’d rehearsed them. ”Two weeks ago I was approached by an Order operative in Jackson National Forest. Man called Bolevara. He offered me a place in the organisation as a tactician.” Davies’ face was a wall. Hartman resisted the urge to tug at her uniform and ignored the spasm that twitched its way down one leg. ”With your permission, sir, I intend to take it.”
The sentence hung in the air between them like an executioner’s axe. She bit down on a dozen excuses, a hundred rationalisations. There weren’t any good enough. None that would change the fundamental facts of what she was asking for. ”He claims the Order’s working against Gallic interests in the Taus. Sabotage. Assassinations. Says they orchestrated the death of one Count Tilly at the hands of the Marquis back in July.” She’d tried to pull the file herself. Before the drop to Lieutenant Commander, she might even have been able to find it. An undercurrent of sarcasm crept into her voice. ”Apparently, they share the Republic’s concerns regarding Gallic expansion. I don’t buy the humanitarian angle, sir, but it could be that Order brass figures we’re the devil they know.”
She paused.
”Frankly, I think they’re as worried as we are. Doubt they’d be coming to us otherwise. You saw the gear the Gallics were using at Leeds – those cloaked bombers weren’t like anything we’ve got. If they’ve somehow made contact with the nomads to get them, Bolevara’s people have got every reason to be getting concerned. They wanted someone who’s fought them before, and it looks like that meant us.” Evidently not worried enough to offer their help before the Navy had sent its people into Leeds. A scowl darted across her features. ”It’s possible that they’re just fishing for intel, but it ain’t as if I’ve got anything to give them they couldn’t pick up on the evening news. If it is legitimate, sir, and I think it is, it’s a chance to see how they operate that we probably won’t get again. Sure as hell be I’ll be doing more for our people out there than sitting on this dustball.
I think it’s worth the risk.” Now, finally, a trace of nerves crept into her voice. Hartman clamped down and ignored them. Why did they contact you, Lieutenant Commander? Obvious question. Answering it would also mean disclosing that she’d known Bolevara before she’d ever made the jump to mid-Command, and there was only one place that revelation was going to land her. Policy was policy. She prayed Davies had the tact not to ask. ”But if I do go, I want to go as a Naval officer, sir. Not a spy. They know who I am, and our organisations have been playing that game with each other for too long already. Donau died under Naval protection all those years ago because the Order was more concerned with keeping secrets from us than helping us do our jobs. I don’t want a repeat of that.”
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"Cancel everything I have booked for the next three hours, Lieutenant." He shot a look over to the young officer, manning an antiquated terminal in the far corner of the room. He spoke in anticipation of the man's confused glance. "I know that includes the meeting with General Sanders, and yes, you'll need to get in contact with him and reschedule. Find the next block in my time that he doesn't swear at you about, and notify me when that's all done." With a swift nod from the junior, Davies set off behind a series of airlocks, heading deeper into the mountain complex nestled in Columbia's terrestrial landscape.
He spent the next hour in his office, a wide room containing various holoscreens and displays, as well as a large wood desk - real wood, cut from the many arboreal varieties dotting the lush planet. The elegance of the room was embellished by a classical melody hanging in the air - an old song from Earth times, reproduced by a modern Libertonian orchestra in the late 700s. Despite the comforting safety of the office complex, Davies felt perched on a razor's edge.
The last six months had placed him and his navy in dire straits. Royal Flush was nothing short of a complete disaster, one that had nearly stripped Davies of his position, had McKay not come to his rescue in one of the many legal proceedings. Gallic forces conglomerated in a thin, red line on the western edge of California, slicing San Diego Border Station clean in half. Whatever was left of First Fleet had managed to hold the line there, but it wasn't going to last. The largest holoscreen on his wall displayed the system, complete with small symbols dotting the line on both sides, containing up to the minute data on each flotilla that darted around the system. His gaze fell to a stack of folders on his desk, all containing reports from the front, asking for orders that he didn't have. Grumbling, he threw the collection of papers onto the floor, the white leaflets flying out in a wide spread. With the same gesture, the holoscreen faded to black, displaying a rotating orange dot darting around the emblem of the Republic of Liberty. Hartman was making the call.
He shot a passing glance at a nearby timepiece, noting that she was about ten minutes early. He could've accepted the request, but he decided to search for his Admiral's cap in the expansive room, wasting about half of the time before locating it. Truth be told, he could've accepted the call in casual clothing, but he felt a certain amount of required etiquette and respect toward Hartman. She had never truly been his superior, and, for a majority of his career, had actually been under his command - and yet, he secretly held a lingering amount of respect toward her. He admired her tenacity, her ability to keep calm under fire. If there was a better officer in the Navy, he hadn't had the chance to meet them. It was a shame, truly, having her shackled to a near-defunct OCS program on a backwater continent, but it wasn't necessarily his choice to make, what with the sheer scrutiny his command had come under.
The timepiece let off an idle beep. It was 1400, just in time for the call. He tapped a button on the table and was met with the steeled and scarred face of Lieutenant Commander Hartman. Despite all the surgery from her Leeds battle scars, she didn't look much different - when you accrued that many scars, it was difficult to tell them apart, or discern new ones. They exchanged stiff salutes, and quickly got to business.
”Two weeks ago I was approached by an Order operative in Jackson National Forest. Man called Bolevara. He offered me a place in the organisation as a tactician. There was a brief pause, almost hesitation. With your permission, sir, I intend to take it.”
Davies' head went into a spin. He was being threatened with a forced resignation almost daily, he was personally responsible for the loss of one-fifth of all combat capable ships in the Navy, and now one of his finest officers was asking for permission to defect. He resisted the urge to speak out, and instead remained listening, stonefaced all the while. She spoke about her reasons, tactfully ignoring the easy excuses she could fall on. And, in typical Hartman fashion, her words were carefully targeted and hard to argue with.
”But if I do go, I want to go as a Naval officer, sir. Not a spy. They know who I am, and our organisations have been playing that game with each other for too long already. Donau died under Naval protection all those years ago because the Order was more concerned with keeping secrets from us than helping us do our jobs. I don’t want a repeat of that.”
The old admiral let out a sigh. His mind grabbed at words, attempting to piece sentences together in the haze of thought. Eventually, he came to something. "Hartman." As the name escaped his lips, he felt an uneasy feeling reaching up his esophagus, one that didn't go away when he gruffly cleared his throat. Nevertheless, he continued. "I'll start by saying that if this was anyone else coming to me with this proposal, I'd have them court martialed." It wasn't far from the truth. He sat on his words for a while, an uncomfortable silence settling on the room. "I can't fathom the response I'll get from my colleagues if I let you go through with this. We're talking collusion with a, ehm, a terrorist entity, as far as Liberty is concerned. I know as well as you do that we could be facing something big, and that we need every friend we can get, but..."
His voice trailed off. A thousand thoughts raced in the old man's head, thousands of connections appearing and disappearing. On the one hand, it was the opportunity the Navy needed. The Order didn't have the bureaucracy and red tape that kept the ESRD from doing what it needed to do, and they tended to have less of a moral obligation as well. This was their game, and Davies would be kidding himself to call it anything else. But he couldn't just send a Naval delegate to the Order - a large chunk of the ESRD simply got up and left two months ago, disappearing into the Omicrons. He didn't want that to happen again.
He looked up again. Hartman shifted her stance slightly, and Davies suddenly became aware of how much time had passed. With a shake of the head, he continued, praying to some unknown deity that he wasn't signing away the Navy and the Republic with his choice. "Hartman. You're a fine officer stuck in the middle of nowhere because the brass thinks you're another washed up Royal Flush casualty. I could have you placed on any detail you name, and I know you'd outperform wherever you were. Do you really think this is what the Navy needs to win the war?" He let out a sigh, adjusting one of his sleeves for a moment. As he brought his head up, he gazed into the cold, hard eyes of Jane Hartman, a woman who'd refused to be chewed up and spit out by the Gallic war machine, and waited.