Original fic

[icarus_chained]

I meant to put this up ages ago. One of my earlier experiments in ... well, space opera, really.

Title: The Logistics of the Fleet
Author: icarus_chained
Summary: Admiral Nyenkin of the 8th Fleet is just back on the job. And faced with problems.
Rating: PG-13 for a little language, but not much.
Notes: Because a friend raised some interesting questions. Such as whether spaceships have plumbing. And to a far lesser degree, for this fic anyway, how humans and aliens might be attracted to each other. A warning: this galactic fleet comes across a little like a bus service. But hopefully it'll be apparent why.

 

The Logistics of the Fleet

 

Admiral Nyenkin had settled herself back into her office at the 8th Fleet dry-dock, back for the first time in six months. Home sweet home. Hah! She had sorted out most of her correspondance, and was looking forward to a few minutes to herself, to get reacquainted with the station. A buzz through the intercom soon put paid to that idea, however. She sighed. How very ... typical.

"Ma'am?" There was a hesitant lilt to her assistant's melodious voice that had Nyenkin pinching her nose in anticipation of frustration and exhaustion. Dirkin was Alyani, after all. A species renowed for their utter unflappability, and confidence levels that probably made God, whoever or whatever God happened to be, feel inadequate. If Dirkin was feeling hesitant about something, what the hell hope had she of facing it with equanimity?

But she squared her shoulders anyway, stiffened her spine into the proper posture of an Admiral of the 8th fleet, and pressed the buzzer to let Dirkin's squat little figure through. She didn't watch him approach. In dry-dock and on the large cruisers with their internal gyroscopic stabilisers, the sight of the rotund triped's rolling gait always made her feel slightly queasy, but when they'd first met on board the scrappy little g-fighters, there had been nothing more graceful or soothing than those loping movements. Which had been rather fortunate, because there were few things less soothing to human eyes than an Alyani face.

"Pardon, ma'am, but we've ... had a few complaints," Dirkin explained in his usual harmonious tones, a gentle grimace sent her way to show his sympathy. They'd rapidly figured out that a smile, with those features, was never going to do their friendship any favours.

Nyenkin stood, pacing over to the 'window' of her office. The view it afforded, a fantastic close-up of one of the dry-dock struts, wasn't exactly inspiring, but the ability to stand broodily in front of windows was probably a prerequisite of command by now, and she'd long since mastered the art. Besides, Dirkin enjoyed it. Apparently, to Alyani, one of the few asthetically pleasing human attributes was the line of the back and shoulders in military stance. Given the sacrifices he'd made for her peace of mind, standing with her back to him when they talked hardly seemed an arduous measure.

"Please tell me it's not the Crushetska delegation again," she said, letting an ominous note slip in.

"No. We've been spared that, this time at least," Dirkin laughed. It really was a beautiful sound. "But I'm afraid we've had a rush of people to fill the large void left by their usual dire remonstrations." Nyenkin squeezed her eyes shut, one fist coming up automatically to rap the window with a soft thud. Dirkin huffed his approval behind her.

She sighed. "Go on, then. Tell me who, and what, and how far we're allowed to go in telling them to sod off. Be sure not to neglect that last part. It's very important to me."

"I would never have guessed," he murmured wryly, and her reflection smirked at him. "Well then. We've got a number we can dismiss right off the bat. The Chall want a place with the 8th, for a start. They don't seem to quite grasp why we've been denying them. Apparently, the routes the fleet frequents are areas they've been wanting to extend a presence into for some time."

Nyenkin snorted. "I presume you have explained to them that the reason none of the 8th routes head into Chall territory is because the ships aren't designed to take them? That's Bartoll's sector. Tell them to bloody well go bother him!"

Dirkin huffed lightly. "Bartoll won't deal. They want him to plot a route through to the Dryassi zone, and his ships can't take Chall *and* Dryassi. To be frank, I'm not sure any ship of the line out of the earth sphere could. But the Chall are convinced this is a human plot to discriminate against them, and destroy their people's future."

"Bloody hell!" Nyenkin spat, nearly spinning around in anger, but instead stiffening her spine in vibrating outrage. Dirkin warbled appreciatively under his breath. "It's not discrimination! It's bloody well logistics. It's physics, the laws of the universe. Those people excrete, on a daily basis, the organic equivilent of two and a half tonnes of weapons-grade plutonium! No ship of the line has that kind of waste disposal capacity, not on top of the twenty-nine square meters the Dryassi require per cubicle. Half the bloody ship would have to be given over to the waste systems! We don't have either the space or the processing power, not for both."

"Ahem," Dirkin commented, politely, but with an edge. "I did explain this to them, ma'am. They didn't seem inclined to believe me. Not even when I went into declamation."

Nyenkin blinked. "They're pissed enough to resist an Alyani in full verbal spate?" she queried, disbelieving. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Dirkin? Woo them with my charming personality?"

"Well," he murmured. "The Chall Supriate did mention that a pacifying custom among his people would be ..." He stopped when he saw the colour flee the back of her neck. "Nevermind," he finished hurriedly, but too late.

"You tell the Chall Supriate," she hissed, automatically spinning into a fighting crouch before she could check herself, "that if he mentions any such thing again, I will personally give him an in-depth tour of our waste disposal facilities. I'll introduce him at one end, and bloody well wait at the other so I can stomp on the pieces!"

Dirkin smiled warningly. "Ahem. Might I suggest a ... slightly more diplomatic approach, ma'am?" Nyenkin curled her lip, but straightened and turned back to the window.

"Does it involve my actually having to talk to him?"

"Not if you don't want to, I'm sure," he murmured soothingly. She nodded.

"Alright then. What's next on our merry list?"

"The Phracxatal want a stop on the FP97 route. Their planet is close enough to the Hro lane, and they maintain they need the trade links out to the Black Rim."

She shook her head. "Can't do. Five species limit per route, remember? The ships can only take so much alteration."

"According to their spokesbeing, and the biodata they sent to the fleet's banks, they're biologically very similar to the Pristai. The home planets are similiar, so it's possibly a case of sympathetic evolution. There's no genetic suggestion that they're related. But their waste, sleeping and eating needs are close enough to the Prissies to pass muster, and the FP97 route has been enough of a favourite there that the ships could take them with only a few minor additions. Ones that I think could be done on the next safety inspection."

Nyenkin paused to mull this over. "What kind of time-frame are we talking?"

"We could have 90% of the FP flotilla upgraded for the service within eight months, and the detour to Gensuai would add on a mere twenty minutes ship-time to the tour, plus six hours in space dock for boarding, if they're anything like the Prissies when it comes to idling." Dirkin had a sore spot when it came to the Pristai, she remembered suddenly. That floofy cadet who'd passed him in the finals. She grinned.

"Anybody further along the route who'd object?"

He paused. "Well ... the Bodkins might."

Nyenkin flinched. She'd forgotten that the FP97 went through the Bodkin patch. That wasn't their real name, of course. But however the hell the Bodkin's communicated, it wasn't by voice, so no-one actually knew their real name. As far as she could tell, they either communicated with a semaphoric movement of ... attachments, or it had something to do with the colours and patterns of their drumaia-sotto. Possibly both. Possibly neither. They didn't talk to outsiders, whether because they couldn't, or wouldn't. The scientific know-how of the species was another question they had yet to answer. But they tolerated the route passing through, provided it was regular and didn't disturb them. She wasn't sure how they'd react to anything passing through at any other time. The first thing you knew about the Bodkins being pissed at you was when they blew you out of the stars.

"Are the Phracxatal worth sending in a probe for the expected times?" she asked. Translation: are they rich enough for us to risk getting our asses handed to us?

"Their planet exports brosentium locally," Dirkin murmured diffidently. Translation: yes.

"Right. Set it up," she ordered, and then paused. And smiled, in a way that had Dirkin backing away slightly from it's reflection. "And, Dirkin? Could you time the probe's launch for the arrival of the Chall delegation next month? Only, I think if we're going out ..."

"We should take a few of the bastards with us?" he finished, and she grinned sharply. The Alyani shook his shoulders slightly. "You should really try to take a few more of those anti-stress sessions, Nyenya-foi. Your agression is beginning to show again." She nodded shortly. Any other officer, she would have disemboweled for so familiar a suggestion, but Dirkin was different. Dirkin was a friend.

"I'll think about it," she offered. "Anything else?"

"Well ..." he murmured, and the hesitation from earlier slipped back into his tone. Nyenkin stilled, in a loose posture of combat readiness that had unnerved more than a few delegates who'd tried her patience. Dirkin rolled forward to stand behind her shoulder. "The Archdeacon of the Blazing Sun wants a word with you about its quarters on the Brigandi. Something about them being too close to the 'inferior races'."

Nyenkin didn't stiffen. She didn't drop into a fighting stance. She didn't let loose the impressive stream of profanity that immediately and invitingly suggested itself. But her voice could have frozen hydrogen.

"Did it, now?"

Dirkin swallowed, and flexed his rear limb nervously. "I'm aware of your opinion of its Humbleness, Nyenya-foi. But, well, this time ... it may have a point."

She turned to him, slowly. "Oh?"

Dirkin looked away from the chill in her eyes. "It's just that the Brigandi is one of the ships that High Command has drafted for the millenial celebrations, and it's been partially refitted for the primus delegations, remember? And one of those delegations is ..."

The penny dropped, and Nyenkin raised one hand so she could drop her head into it. "The Amba. Dirkin, please tell me we don't have a ship in active service containing the Sun-starers and the Dark-fearing. Please tell me HC hasn't been that stupid." Her voice was just shy of pleading. Dirkin shook his shoulders sadly.

"I'm afraid, Admiral, that they have. And on the same corridor, too. The only thing dividing the photon flooding in the Archdeacon's mess from the UV soup in the Ambassi is murasite panelling and some electrics. The Archdeacon doesn't trust that, and quite frankly, I'm not sure if I don't agree with it. Murasite has a terrible tendancy to fail after a few years, and given the state of our supply-dock, I'm not sure how long it was in storage before the refit. And if it does fail ..."

"We've a stinking war on our hands!" Nyenkin burst out, and strode over to her desk to sit down. "Why does no-one tell me these things before they happen, Dirkin? And why can't HC get it's head out of the clouds long enough to actually learn the realities!" She stopped and dropped her head onto the desk for a few minutes. Dirkin was quiet.

"Is there anything we can do?" she asked, finally, her voice muffled because she was still face-down on the desk.

"We can recall the Brigandi," he said softly. "Explain the situation, offer our apologies to its Humbleness, refit the ship with gauranteed fresh murasite, and hope for the best. It's all we can do, I'm afraid."

Nyenkin was silent. Apologise to the hypocritical, fanatical, lunatic Sun-starer. In person. The thought was shudder-worthy. "Dirkin?" she asked finally. "How long have I got left in the service?"

The Alyani's answer was cautious, but the humour they shared was in it. "Assuming you don't crack and take the early retirement option?" he asked wryly. Nyenkin snorted.

"Big assumption. But go with it."

"Then, Nyenya-foi, you've got fifteen years to go, if you stay at your current rank. If you make it into the HC ... who knows."

She sighed, and sat up, stiffening her shoulders. "Fifteen years. I don't know how I'm going to last that long. Maybe I should just put myself out of my misery now." But she smiled at him to take the edge off it. Dirkin grimaced back.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't," he murmured. "Because I'm technically next in line for your post, Admiral, and I really don't think I could cope. I respectfully request that you not do anything so cruel to your oldest friend."

She grinned fiercely at him. "An Alyani, content with less than the best? Dirkin, you traitor, you!"

He huffed, and laid a hand on her arm. "Not so. I have the best. The best Admiral in the fleet, at my side. Is it my fault that my people can't understand that you and I work best in compliment to each other? I could not be expected to leave you, Admiral, not for all the Alyani in the universe!"

She smiled at him, honestly glad to be back for the first time that morning. "Alright, Dirkin," she said softly. "Contact the Archdeacon. We'll do it your way." Her assistant nodded, and turned to roll his easy way out of the room, and she called after him. "And Commander?"

He turned back. "Aye, Admiral?" She sneered challengingly.

"While you're at it, forward my request for promotion to HC. I think I've restrained myself long enough. Those idiots need waking up, and I think we might just have to be the ones to do it!"

The Alyani stared at her for a little minute, then creased his ugly face into a triumphal grin. "Immediately, Admiral! And welcome back, Nyenya-foi!"

Admiral Nyenkin sat back as he left, and smiled to herself. Oh, yes. She was home, alright. At last.