Dead Star Dockyards

"Hey ARC, doesn't the treat bag go significantly over the volume limit for personnel?" Don was rearranging the dog's equipment in a way that would keep it from interfering with combat operations.

"That would be the case for low level crewmates, however records show those are complimentary of the ship's captain. The commanding officer has a drastically increased volume permission in order to account for variables such as the ship's mascot."

"How much did they bring to be able to spare all this?" Don raised an eyebrow at the slumped over sack, waiting for the dog food to finish fabricating.

"Are you looking for an answer?"

"Rhetorical."

In spite of ARC's progress, it still struggled to determine the difference between slight sarcasm and rhetorical questions. Sarcasm was an issue because it needed to take Don's word as, essentially, law. ARC might suggest something, not understanding social cues or nuance, tactics or practicality, that Don needed to correct it on.

Rhetorical questions were also problematic. ARC had a duty to educate Don on subjects he had no understanding him and give somewhat accurate statistical predictions for enemy actions. In this way, ARC was very similar to an ever present search engine. Any queries, either serious or in jest, ARC would seek to answer to the best of its ability.

A small *bip* indicated that a serving of food was ready.

As Don scraped the slightly warmer than room temp lump of kibble and what appeared to be bacon strips into a bowl, he took note that the food smelled like beef. Perhaps it was only an additive, but he was jealous that Mercedes got to eat something that at least smelled like edible food, even if it didn't look like it.

Don had three options, a pile of salt flavored mush, a bitter loaf of what might pass as bread from a distance, and a sour material that was vaguely steak textured.

The best tasting of the three was no doubt the salty mush. Stale, bitter bread and sour meat were simply horrendous in comparison to over salted mashed potatoes. All of them lacked the vibrant colors commensurate with a satisfying meal.

"Hey ARC, why is the dog kibble more appealing than the human food?"

Calling it appealing was perhaps something of an embellishment, but the fact remained that croutons soaked in the smell of cooked meat beat out "steak" that tasted like lime. He was tempted to see if it tasted as good as it smelled.

"As I understand it, it has to do with incentivization. With little to do on duty, it was found that some servicemen would default to eating to ease the boredom. Making the food taste unappealing was the most effective solution."

"So why doesn't that apply to dogs?"

"Dogs can't operate the machines that make it. It would be unfair to have them suffer."

Don let out sound between a sigh and a gag. He lamented the fact that there were people out there ruining life for everyone else. Swallowing his curiosity for the time being, he opted to solve the problem in a different manner.

"Could you alter the formula so that it is at least a smidge more acceptable?"

"No. I will not risk malnourishment or food poisoning."

"Geh."

Don knew to not pursue the matter further.

Any request that ARC specifically refused to do would not be done regardless of convincing or how many times Don asked. ARC's coding made what it was and was not allowed to do crystal clear.

Don might be stuck with the agony of garbage food, but at least Mercedes was happy. She chewed through the reddish brown pile of nutrients as fast as she could, the corrugated pattern of the bowl's interior preventing her from eating too fast and choking.

He was still jealous, but the sounds of crunching dissuaded his interest in the food a tad.

He could deal with meat that only tasted slightly sour, but he might be worse off with crunchy meat. He was convinced he would gag if it didn't taste at least moderately charred.

Something about taste not matching with the texture does not sit right with the tongue.

Finished with supervising the dog for the immediate future, Don laid back down on his bed. He was studying, but not focusing on anything in particular. Drifting from subject to subject, book to book, person to person on his tablet. If the data dump that had occurred did not contain the summation of all known human history, then it was pretty damn close.

Right now he had a document on the build up to the First World War opened up. He was slowly becoming enamored with the 'West' and its history, his focus absorbed almost entirely by two nations. One perpetually surrounded by modernized powers and one so far away from the rest that they were all but impervious to assault.

Mercedes joined Donovan on his bed shortly after finishing her dinner, the interval between was spent searching the surrounding floor for any scraps she might have displaced. Despite being with Don for little over four hours, Mercedes was already treating him like family.

As she lay on her side against Don's leg, facing the edge of the bed, she drifted towards slumber. This time, she felt her rest was unlikely to be interrupted courtesy of the dim lights and calm human.

Both Don and ARC felt willing to oblige the soon to be unconscious pup. Don was scheduled for proper sleep in half an hour, and ARC was keen to begin study on canine behavior without dedicating processing power to keeping tabs on the cabin.

If what ARC had could be described as instincts, then it was getting a feeling that Donovan would be having questions about what the dog might be doing. It was already seeing results.

Unfortunately for Donovan, a notification from ARC appeared on his tablet in the midst of his reading about the Black Hand.

Mission orders, directly from central.

ARC assured him that they were not urgent and he had plenty of time to sleep. This was done via text of course, no point in waking the dog.

Grudgingly, Don placed his tablet into the charging slot on the wall. Orders meant exhaustion. May as well stave it off while he could. Orders from central in the midst of what should be radio silence could only mean one thing. There was about to be a huge pain in his ass.

His dreams would be erratic that night. Most revolved around Mercedes. A few surrounded his growing obsession with the wars of Europe and Asia. One particularly disturbing one had the Earth fall to nuclear weaponry, leaving only a barren hellscape of ash rubble.

It was during this dream that he was woken to a whining German Shepherd on the floor besides his bed.

"ARC, what is she yelling for?"

"She may have to relieve herself."

And just like that he was up out of bed and coaxing her to the grass-pad. He almost grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, but ARC warned him against it. After about 2 minutes of convincing her the ever so slightly blue barrier of ozone gas the MAID had trapped between some of its layers was indeed safe to traverse through, Mercedes seemed a few pounds lighter and was far less whiny.

"Did she pee on the floor anywhere?"

"No. All fecal matter and urine are completely contained in the bounds of the MAID."

"Thank god. Time until I have to wake up?"

"Thirty minutes."

"Damn it. May as well get going now. Am I going to have to make myself presentable or can an audio call be arranged with the Admiral."

"Your mission orders do not require a briefing, though I would suggest making a final appearance. It would appear that we will not be in contact with a friendly fleet for at least a month."

"WHAT?! WHY!?"

"Read the mission statement."

He hurried past the confused dog and into the cockpit. After a quick read-through, the reasons for the 'sudden detachment' were clear, even if he didn't like them.

After analyzing the data from the raid on the dockyard, Central Command determined that the damage incurred by the strike was far in excess of the damage they had anticipated. They had expected only a third of the ships hit to actually be knocked out of commission permanently, the real numbers were closer to a complete knockout.

From what had been seen by the main fleet's follow up assault, only one of the damaged Dreadnoughts had managed to limp away with a small number of non-capital ships, those not damaged having long-since fled.

With this level of damage done, it had been determined that nothing the Calibration's fleet could do while low on ammunition and constantly hiding would be more effective than it joining as an additional task force for a general offensive. One more fleet meant one more objective could be taken care of at any given time.

On a similar note, they had determined that there was something far more important than range finding and munition guidance that the Noah could do, that only the Noah could do.

There were reports from their spies imbedded in many of the Oligarchic governments of a supership program. They were really only rumors, but there had been enough individual reports from agents that were even on opposite sides of the solar system that Command could not ignore it.

Supposedly, they were finally forced into action when one of their surveillance satellites caught a burst of radiation that was far in excess of what could be described as background. It had come from the Kuiper Belt, far beyond the reaches of the gas giants.

They had a general location, but it was Don's job to actually verify what was out there, if anything was out there.

If he could get a clear shot on any exposed parts not yet covered by armor, he could loose a few rods courtesy of the taxpayer and delay, if not outright end, the project.

This was the rumored 'In-Depth Reconnaissance' he had been warned of.

Mercedes was going to need some time outside of the box she would be calling home for the foreseeable future, so Donovan determined she would be coming to give the her first and probably final salutation to Admiral Adirondack.

The Admiral didn't look like it, but she was closer to the end of her career. This tour of duty would no doubt be her last. Given her role at the opening of this conflict, she was likely to be something of a propaganda icon. Job security would not be a problem for her.

He got into his formal dress as fast as he could without wrinkling it and stepped into the red square. Mercedes had not yet learned the command for sit, so he had to hold her in his arms.

This, irritatingly, resulted in a few hairs on the otherwise drab grey fabric.

Fortunately, Mercedes was far more complicit in moving around the ship this time around. She still tried to explore of course, but she was on her feet and moving. More important was the fact that she would respond to her name. 

Too far astray and a quick "Mercedes!" would grab her attention.

Many of the crew that they passed both on and off duty found pleasure in the clumsy nature she displayed while on her escapades. Several times she ended up tripping over the boots of the more interesting smelling people.

Don took note of the fact that all officers responded to the pup with a treat and a salute. Chances are they were assisting him with the pup's etiquette training.

A few minutes later than he would have liked, they arrived in front of the only other set of doors on the ship he could claim familiarity with, even if all the other doors on this ship except this one were the same. Numbers did not meet the same level recognizability as a platinum plaque and wooden frame.

"DS Donovan Strauss and er, uhh, Dog? Canine? Canid Officer Mercedes reporting." He was greeted by the absence of a response. For a moment he thought that she might still be asleep or otherwise off duty, but the slightly ajar door that Mercedes had just forced her way through instantly removed that as a possibility.

If the commander was absent, then those doors would automatically shut. Without the presence of the most senior active officer, nothing short of a complete system reboot would get those doors to unlock.

What took that thought's place was a slight panic.

"Mercedes! Stop!" He rushed in chasing the rogue, only to be met with a strange sight. "Am I . . . interrupting something?"

Both the admiral and Captain Thompson were sitting at the table, sure, but they were far too close. If there were physical prints on the table, he could have written it off as inspecting something, but the real incriminating evidence was the Admiral's cherry red cheeks and the way that their faces were plastered together.

Even more intriguing was the fact that the Admiral's arms were limp while the Captain had placed his firmly around her torso. Don wasn't exactly experienced with romance, even less so the physical elements of it, but he could tell that it wasn't Adirondack that made the first move.

As Thompson finally took notice of dumbfounded Donovan, he slowly untangled himself from his lover's lips and composed himself. "Sup Beacon. *cough* So uhhh, what brings you here?"

"I was just coming to give my final report before heading off into the black. When's the wedding?" As much as he was rooting for them, he was not above taking shots at them.

"I was thinking a few months after the war ends." Thompson could roll with the punches.

The same could not be said of the Admiral, who was mimicking the mannerisms of a fish the way she opened and closed her mouth.

"Be sure to send me an invite. Did you see where Mercedes went?"

"Mercedes?"

"The puppy! Her name is Mercedes."

"Why did you go with that?"

"No reason in particular, it just sounded nice."

Thompson's eyebrows scrunched at this. Evidently something was off. "It's tradition for service dogs to be named after the ship they serve on or one of the grandparents of the trainer or captain. Was one of your grandmothers named Mercedes?"

"I had no idea. Should I change it?"

"No. If she already responds to it then it would only be a hindrance."

"If that's all well and good, where is she?"

The admiral finally piped up. "I believe she is with Callie, her mother." She gestured to a door which Donovan previously assumed was her personal quarters. "She should be sleeping with the other two puppies."

The slight quiver in her voice alluded to the fact she was trying to play her previous 'interaction' as if it wasn't anything notable. Donovan was definitely going to have to tease the two of them further before he left.

Already he had come up with a topical parting shot.

Inside of this small room were lavish furnishings by military standards. The only problem with them was the fact they were meant for a dog.

On the mattress there was a much larger version of Mercedes, groggy after having just been woken up by one of her kin.

There lay two other 'Mercedes' next to her stomach, sleeping soundly.

"Those two are to complement their mother as the ships mascots. One for the engineers and one for the hangar crew. Mercedes was supposed to be the pilot's mascot, but as I said before, we don't have a place to put her."

"Why is that? Couldn't she just be in here?" He understood the earlier plea of not having space, but if this space existed then they surely must have been able to hold her here.

"Each dog needs to stay in or near the place they work." Adirondack was finally composed, perhaps feeling that Don had been dismissive of their relationship. "The Engineers have space for 'Henry' in one of the engine control rooms and the hangar crew have already cleared a storage depot for their 'Princess'. The Colors don't have a space for Mercedes. Their dorms are far too small and their lounge is inhospitable to her."

You couldn't really expect a dog to be happy while floating, only tolerate it.

For a moment, he was worried that he wouldn't be able to tell Mercedes apart from the other pups. He had forgotten to put a collar on her. The presence of collars on the others dashed this worry, evidently they had overseers more familiar with dogs than himself.

"I'll let her cuddle with her mother while we talk." Don made for the table and took a seat. "Shall we get started on my last report? Or at least my last report for a long time?"

"Where are you going?" Thompson, left out of the loop, was curious as to why he wasn't going to be back.

"In-Depth Reconnaissance, all the way to the Kuiper belt."

If Captain Thompson had been drinking, he would have choked. The Kuiper belt wasn't just far away, it was firmly under the control of the oligarchs. There were even rumors that Skinnik was still active out there, unconfirmed of course.

"Why the hell would you ever go out there? What could we possibly need to know?"

Adirondack answered in lieu of Donovan. "From what I understand, one of the surveillance satellites momentarily picked up a radiation signature synonymous with a large power source. Is this correct?"

"Yes. The emission didn't last long enough to get any precise locations or imaging, but it was far too strong to be an anomaly and there was nothing mechanical or astronomical that could have caused it."

"So what are you looking for?"

"It could be anything, but the large concerns are a supership, superweapon, or 'external interference'."

"It could be aliens?"

"It could be fucking anything."

"I've always wanted to meet an alien."

The Admiral gave a concerned look to her lover at that comment. Military doctrine expressed caution to the extreme in regards to 'Alternative Sapient Species,' a term designed by the intelligentsia to cover all the bases. The individual words were supposed to be universally translatable, the terms could not be construed as offensive in any way they could think of, and it applied to species who were not 'Sapient' in the same way that humans were.

Both ARCS and Skinnik fell under this category as a result.

"I know what you are looking for but what will you do when you find it? If its something like a supership it isn't like we'll be able to dispatch a strike force to take it out."

"My primary objective will be to find it and assess it's status. Once I've found it and returned to report its position, a system camera can be focused on it, which will at least let us keep an eye on it. I also need to give an estimate of how long it might take to get it operational. My secondary objective is to do damage if I can."

"You have weapons?"

"A pair of 30 millimeter autocannons and more than enough ammunition to rip up an exposed power source and engine block. I also have a special treat for any less agreeable portions of an exposed section that react poorly to large amounts of energy."

"You have a nuke?!?!"

"I have a special treat for any less agreeable portions of an exposed section that react poorly to large amounts of energy." Pretty standard 'secret speak' meant to disguise the precise capabilities of the ship. Don figured that the 30's were an expected level of firepower, but the big boys needed to be kept hush-hush.

Exaggerating the capabilities of a ship was also part of espionage.

"Thompson!" The Admiral interrupted this integrally risky line of questioning to get her concerns out of the way. "Are you sure you can survive this mission?"

"Absolutely. It might be a pain in the ass without some sort of anchor force, but I think I can manage."

"You are referring to the fact you are the sole pilot correct?"

"Yeah, when I am formation flying with a fleet I can set a position lock to keep along a set path even while maneuvering around debris. I won't be able to do that alone."

"What are you talking about?" Donovan thought Thompson would have understood the dangers of long solo flights given his status as a strike force commander, but his job in that field might actually cloud his judgement. His experience with sorties had completely mitigated his thinking in terms of action completely independent from a carrier.

"Tell me Captain, how long can you go without sleep?" The tone might have been a bit abrasive, but it was intended to get him to answer his own question.

"40 hours, maybe 50 if I push it, why?"

He didn't get it. Don would try a different angle.

"What is the maximum length of a sortie you will approve and why?"

"Anywhere from six to twelve hours depending on how long we've been up. If it is of utmost importance, I will authorize a fifteen hour strike. I can't go any longer or else my pilots will have an increased chance of dying in exhaustion related incidents. I will not authorize any sorties for the strike craft for nine hours after docking so that we can sleep."

Seeing that he was still not getting it, Don put it out a little more explicitly. "What I am about to do is go out on a single sortie for a month without a ship to lock to."

"He needs to sleep too Tommy. I swear, you are stupid in the strangest areas."

"I love you too sweetie. I just thought your co-pilot - Was it Clark? - would be able to take shifts with you."

"Clark was a technician. He left with the Doctor"

"Ah."

Admiral Adirondack sighed at this obvious bit of deception, deciding to continue before Thompson could inquire further.

"What makes you so confident of success in spite of this trouble with sleep? Won't you also have issues dealing with any enemy patrols? I can't imagine that they would leave a project of that magnitude unguarded."

"I can't tell you the specifics, but a destroyer purposed for detecting hidden threats was unable to see me while focusing everything at its disposal at my location. This was at a range that could be considered short." Don turned to the obvious security threat. "This information is not to leave this room do you understand?"

'Tommy' mimed zipping his lips, locking them, then throwing away the key. He didn't feel like he could fully trust him, but Don had a sinking suspicion that he was too worried over secrecy. Surely command knew that there was an entire task force worth of people at least somewhat aware of a Beacon that shone a light on the enemy, even if they didn't know the specifics.

"In that case the only concern I have left to address is your plan to deal with the possibility of an extended period of consciousness."

"I don't have one."

"Ha?"

"I don't have one. The ship was designed to work while shadowing a fleet, be it ally or enemy. It is a prototype, and most of the systems involved are meant to operate independent of human interaction. I only mark targets because it makes your lives easier. I could sleep during combat if I felt like it and you would see little drop in the fleet's efficiency. The only issue is that there is no way bar positional anchoring to automate movement."

"It can do all that but it doesn't have autopilot?" The pilot remained confused.

"It doesn't have the luxury of being able to shrug off contact with an asteroid like a capital ship does."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Before you answer him Donovan, let ask him something in turn. How do you think autopilot works?"

"It gets you from point A to point B without hitting shit right?"

"That is so far from right it might be left. Listen, that might be true for really large asteroids, but for the most part we just run straight into them and let the armor take care of the work." The Admiral showed some displeasure at his lack of understanding of something like this. Surely even he had felt the vibrations of fairly large objects making contact, even if they were mitigated by the numerous onboard systems.

"I would take it a step further, Admiral. One of the purposes of Capital ships besides firepower is that they act as the space equivalent of icebreakers. In the case of unforeseen space debris making an appearance, smaller and more vulnerable ships are supposed to hide in their shadows." Donovan recited what he had learned as if he was reading from a textbook. "With that said Captain, I simply don't have the mass to be able to ignore running face first into a lump of silicates. Depending on relative velocity I might end up dead on impact even with my emergency dampeners active."

"I can see why that might be a problem."

"Which still leaves the question of how you plan to deal with sleep."

"I could probably set up a 6-2 sleep schedule for myself, rigging an alarm to sound if an object is within a minute or two of impact. Other than that, nothing comes to mind."

The room remained silent for quite a time. Callie made an appearance at some point, sitting down next to the Admiral and laying her head on her lap, receiving pets in turn.

"Have you tried Pervitin?"

"What?"

"Pervitin. You know? Pilot salts?"

"I know what Pervitin is, I'm just wondering why you are suggesting meth."

"Its a middle ground. You can't avoid sleep, but if you absolutely need to stay up that extra hour you can take a dose."

"I am strongly opposed to using drugs to increase performance." Donovan understood Pervitin very well, and knew the risks involved.

"I have to agree with Thompson on this one. You may not like it, but if it will increase your chances of success I need you to take it. Tommy, how much Blitz-Chocolate can we spare?"

"All ten boxes of it. The Colors use the tablets, they act faster."

"Very well. I'll have five boxes delivered from the locker. That should last you a month at safe consumption levels. Keep in mind that these chocolate bars should not find their way into your dogs mouth under any circumstance, am I clear?"

"Crystal."

"With that I authorize your sortie. Get off my ship."

"Godspeed Beacon. I'll be sure to invite you to the wedding." He heard a thump from under the table. Coincidentally, Thompson bit his lip with a face contorted in pain. "Shoot me a message when you get back, ok?"

"Sure thing. Mercedes! Let's go!" The pup came out of the back room with her ears perked up and tail wagging. He hated to split her from her family, but he didn't want to be alone for a month.

Keeping her attention by jogging, he stopped before turning the corner. He had almost forgotten! "Oh, don't forget to wear protection when you go for your own 'In-Depth Reconnaissance' Tommy." Cackling, he scurried away to the Noah.

It was going to be a long month.

- - - - -

As the Captain took his seat on the bridge of his ship, he gazed apprehensively at the sandglass projected in the air.

"Has the time changed at all?"

The deck was silent, giving an answer louder than words. No matter how hard he pushed his crew, nothing was going to get them there that two days faster.

"Captain, do you think that their lifeboat will be able to rendezvous with us before its destroyed?"

"If they built the shield to the proper specifications, it should be able to last a month. They will be fine." The stout man answered the officer's inquiry. "The only concern is whether or not they were able to get enough materials for one, and whether they were of a high enough quality."

Fortunately, they were able to make enough for one. Unfortunately, they were ONLY able to make enough for one. The Captain was the only one present on the bridge who had the pleasure of interacting with those in residence of this universe.

As far as he was aware, he was also the one with the best understanding of how impressive the feat they had achieved was. This was a humanity that was unable to utilize Split at even the lowest of levels.

It was thanks to their collective efforts (and some help from a very enthusiastic scholar) they were able to replicate the core for a pulse shield. They even had the ability to test it, though how they had managed to do this was beyond his ability to comprehend.

The fact that these Humans were so industrious was just as much a relief as it was a disappointment. Their deaths would no doubt be an extreme loss to the Sanctum.

The next few days would be hell for him mentally. It was only a matter of time before his failure to command became official.