“So you found what you were looking for.” Pipra seemed quite surprised.
“They were on an island and near death. We got there just in time. Now, how are we coming on making our own reactors and Smart Metal?”
“We’re getting there. We’ve started a prototype reactor on the moon. Not much output yet, but it’s not breaking down, either. We’ve put out some Smart Metal. They’re using it for trucks dirtside, freeing up your metal to go back to the frigates. We’re having much better luck with aluminum and steel. We’re replacing the fishing fleet with them. Our main problem is getting enough rare earths to power things. We’ve got a solar-cell plant up, but without batteries, you can’t keep the ship out after dark. Same for trucks.”
“Keep on it, then. How are your personnel holding up to being on the front line of humanity’s next fight with the alien bastards?”
“I figured that would come next,” Pipra said, leaning back in her chair. “The three managers who tried to drink Canopus Station dry were cut off at the bar and sent dirtside. Two are working as farmhands. One disappeared into the forest. We’ve had a few suicides. Nothing above the average for folks in high-stress jobs. Since we started closing up the bars early, folks have been going home and finding their own comfort. Lots of marriages, handfastings, and civil unions for folks who don’t want a preacher involved. Not a few of our folks are bedding down with your Sailors, ma’am. I hope that isn’t a problem, Your Highness.”
“That’s my next meeting. Any of your folks want to ship on with the Navy if some of our folks wanted to try their hand at your trades?”
“Our skill sets are nowhere close, ma’am. We’re a pretty select set of specialists here. Retraining your folks to our jobs and our folks to yours would not be an efficient use of resources at this critical time. All of us heard about that buoy six systems out that went silent. We’re working twelve or more hours a day, six or seven days a week.”
“Work hard. Play hard,” Kris said.
“Yes, ma’am, and we treat them like adults. What they do on their own time, what they have of it, is their own business.”
“My next meeting may see that applied to the fleet as well.”
“Good. It’s about time if you don’t mind my saying so, that you uniform types treated grown-ups as grown-ups.”
“You tend to your knitting and I’ll tend to mine,” Kris said, dismissing the future CEO before she decided to give Kris more advice she didn’t need.
“Yes, ma’am,” Pipra said, standing. “Glad to have you back. Looking forward to working with you. How soon do you think we have before the bastards attack?”
“If I knew that, I’d be a lot more relaxed than I am,” Kris said as she ushered Pipra to the door.
That left her with exactly three minutes before her meeting with the frigate skippers. That was scheduled for the wardroom. XOs, chief engineers, and skippers of the Marine detachments had been invited as well as command senior chiefs and Gunnies. Kris was none too sure how far she’d go with this consensus process, but she wanted all her ducks in a row, where she could knock them down with one stone if she had to.
She got the “Atten-hut” and “As you were” over with as quickly as possible. Again, most of the audience were close to the coffee urns, so she took her stance beside it. She first announced that the crew of the Hornet had been found, starving and sick, but were on their way here. Those present cheered, only too aware that it could have been them, and they had a commander who would go the extra million light-years to find them.
That done, Kris glanced at Captain Kitano, half expecting her to report the issue that was to be the main topic of this meeting, but Kitano didn’t respond to a glance. When Kris opened the floor up for any problems, the captains only eyed each other. Then Kris saw the reason.
Lieutenant Commander Sampson, former skipper of the Constellation, had taken a seat at Kris’s far right, half looking at her, half eyeing the other skippers. When their eyes met, Sampson locked on her, a cruel twist to her lips. Was she daring Kris and the other skippers to step across the line, to violate Navy regs?
Kris had no intention of letting a failed skipper dictate policy to a Longknife.
As she took a deep breath to start, the door opened, and Admiral Benson, ret., stepped inside. He quickly but quietly covered the distance to the chair next to Sampson and settled into it.
The failed skipper did not look very happy to have her new supervisor seated at her elbow.
Kris took another breath and began to lay the problem out in a methodical way. She explained that most of them had been chosen for this assignment so far from any other humans because of their lack of personal attachments. Few had left wives, husbands, or significant others on the other side of the galaxy. All hands needed to be able to make quick, emergency adjustments to Smart MetalTM. That also made it easy to acquire attachments, and the lack of shore facilities made it hard, if not impossible, for commanders to respond to violations of regulations. That, and the total lack of any replacements to take the place of anyone detached for punishment put leadership in a lose-lose situation.
“So, what do we do?” Kris asked rhetorically.
“You don’t violate Navy regs,” Sampson snapped.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander, but I’d like to hear from officers actually facing this leadership challenge.”
“They should face it, but they’re not. They’re all in violation of Navy regs,” Sampson almost shouted, keeping the floor from any others.
Since she insisted on doing all the talking, Kris decided to give her the floor.
For a while.
“And how would you propose solving this leadership challenge, miss.”
Sampson cringed at Kris’s slap, addressed as one might a middy or boot ensign, but she charged ahead. “As I did with the Constellation. Open space barracks and bed checks.”
“And we saw how well it worked for you,” Captain Kitano shot back. “Most of your crew wanted off your ship.”
“Only because your love boats were out there for them to transfer to,” was her comeback.
“May I remind everyone that we’re here to fight a pretty nasty set of aliens, not bicker like kids in the sandbox,” Kris pointed out.
“But you’re all behaving like kids,” Sampson growled.
“More like teenagers,” retired admiral, now yard supervisor Benson put in. “These young men and women have a tough job to do, a deadly fate looming in their future, and the need to work it out without the external discipline that usually goes with this job. It’s not a good place to be.”
Sampson glared at her supervisor, who ignored her and gave Kris a placid look.
Jack and four Marines marched through the door before Kris said another word. Jack glanced around, spotted Sampson, and marched for her. “As I understand it, you are not on the approved list for this meeting. Would you please come with me?”
“I’m a serving officer in the U.S. Navy. I can go where I wish.”
“This meeting is for skippers and their key staff,” Jack snapped. “You are not in any of those billets. Either come with me now, or I will have my Marines remove you to the brig.”
Sputtering nasties under her breath that Kris was careful not to hear, Sampson went where Jack led. At the door, she whirled and pointed at the yard supervisor. “What’s he doing here?”