The office of the President of the ISA was called the “Presidium”, and was located close to the top of Constitution Palace, with the wide windows behind the teak desk and tall upholstered chair providing an excellent view of Magnolia Monument Park and the cityscape of central New Seattle beyond. The twin stars of Rho Martialis and Rho Pacifica had slipped down over the horizon, and the lights of the hightowers, towers, skywalks, and the skycar traffic was on full display. The Magnolia Monument was illuminated by spotlights, the thirty metre tall marble plinth a brilliant cream, topped with the statue of a genderless figure clasping a flag to its chest while raising a closed fist to the sky in defiance.

Fleet Admiral Edwina Bradford had never been much a fan of the monument; it lacked a certain gravitas that could only be found in life-like artistic impression. She could recognize that the artist’s intention had been to create a unifying symbol that didn’t visually identify with any particular culture or nationality, but it still undersold the immense courage of the brave souls of what would be known as the Verge Federation, who had broken free from the United Earth Alignment to form their own independent society. On the flip side, soldiers were often romantics at heart, so it might be that often unrecognised part of her psyche that was putting words in her “mouth”, so to speak. She kept standing at parade rest with her hands clasped behind her back while staffers and Palace employees swarmed all over the Presidium. The office was a large rectangular room with an impressive eight doors, four of which led to outer staff offices, two were entrances, and the other two led to a lounge and a personal library respectively. The centre of the room featured a long table with seating for twenty, a more informal coffee table with adjoining couches, a small drinks cabinet, a few shelves, and two massive oil paintings of Jeffrey and Sophia Burnside, the father-daughter duo that had effectively forged the ISA. President Kelley’s speech had been delivered only four hours ago, and the staffers were busy moving in his personal belongings, his choice of art that would adorn the rest of the office, plus his files and documents.

“Ma’am Bradford, please excuse the mess.” Kelley came out from the library door, flipping through a documents folder, having popped in there just as Bradford had been announced by one of the Presidium butlers. He had shed his tie and jacket and he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, giving off a much more unarmed impression than his lofty title as President of the ISA, Supreme Commander-in-Chief, and High Commissioner of Elysium suggested.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to move all the bits and bobs required to give the impression that I’m actually running the state before now. I’ve had my secretary call around to organise meetings with those people who it’s imperative I meet with right away. You’re the second person I’ve called to my office today.”

Bradford didn’t bat an eyelid, unimpressed at the easy attempt at flattery.

“Understood, Your Excellency,” she said simply, continuing to stand at parade rest. She wore her General Dress, a navy blue double-breasted tunic with a tall white collar, a white bar along the sleeves, a white belt, and two rows of golden buttons in addition to the gold-and-red bars on her cuffs and shoulder straps. Her trousers were white with golden stripes, and black boots partly concealed by white gaiters. She had taken off her white peaked combination cap and held it under her left shoulder. While ribbing the Royal Navy for having a complicated uniform scheme, with lots of different uniforms and too-similar sounding names was common in the Alliance Space Navy, it really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black; they had just as many idiosyncratic uniform conventions, though they generally involved a lot less golden lace and frogging.

“I think it’s better if we retire to the lounge,” the president said while gesturing at the door with the folder, “much less chance of being interrupted, and significantly fewer prying eyes and listening ears.”

Bradford nodded and walked stiffly into the lounge room. It was a pretty simple affair, which suited Bradford nicely, with only a few couches, low tables, a fireplace, and an entertainment system at the far end of the room, and a large Neü-Persian carpet dominating most of the floor. The windows along the southward facing part of the rooms had the same view as the office ones, but weren’t as tall and didn’t dominate the room as much. There was a bar present, but the president steered away from it, depositing himself in a reclining chair, and mentioned for Bradford to get comfortable. She remained standing.

“Let’s set a few ground rules right off the bat,” Kelley said as he crossed his legs comfortably or potentially in a show of feigned superiority. God knows he wasn’t the first politician to try that shit in front of Edwina. “I know for a fact that you’re not my biggest fan, and while I can appreciate that we do not exactly see eye to eye politically, I do hope that you will put those personal feelings aside when it comes to carrying out your duties as the Chief of Naval Operations.”

His cold eyes were fixed on her adamant dark brow ones, but she didn’t relent an inch.

“It is as you say, Your Excellency, I did not vote for you two weeks ago. And, again, like you said out there a few hours back, I won’t insult your intelligence by beating around the bush…”

She felt her heart skip a beat in pleasure as she noticed the slightest of twitches at the corner of Kelley’s mouth, but her well-honed kabuki’s mask of a neutral facial impression didn’t betray anything.

“We are both perfectly aware of our responsibilities. I, along with any officer of the Alliance Space Navy, am bound both by both oath and law to obey the orders of the elected head of the ISA. At least, so long as the orders given are conscionable and morally defendable. If they are of such a nature that I in my capacity as the highest ranking officer of the Alliance Navy cannot find it in myself to carry them out, then none of the officers and enlisted under my command are obliged to carry them out. That is written in the Alliance Charter. And it includes the ordering of an armed conflict that I might deem we, as both a combined armed forces and civilian society, cannot in good conscience win without excessive loss of life.”

She let the implication with what the president had just recently said to the millions who had showed up to attend his inauguration hang in the air.

And the man simply smiled.

“Then we are of the same mind, Admiral Bradford. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Your dedication to the Fleet and your sense of duty does you credit.”

He rose and threw the documents folder onto the nearby coffee table, and walked over to the bar. Kelley produced two glasses and poured a small measure of off-yellow liquid in both, before walking back and handing one of them to the still standing Bradford. He resumed his seat and in response to such an unexpected answer and gesture, Bradford sat down almost against her will into one of the similar chairs opposite the president’s.

“I don’t really care if you have a poster of me up on your bedroom wall, Edwina. Is it alright if I call you Edwina?”

Bradford nodded sharply, tasting the alcohol. It was a mezcal, for sure, but she couldn’t tell anything beyond that, she wasn’t much of a connoisseur.

“You have a talent, Edwina,” the president continued after a small sip of his own drink, “an exceedingly rare one in this day and age. You’re able to discern between what needs to be done, what must be dealt with, and what the future might require of yourself and the people around and below you, sifting through all of the other bullshit and tedious minutiae. And in an organisation as large, varied, and spread out as the Alliance Space Navy, that is no small feat. There is a very good reason why you’ve been able, or should I say be allowed, to stay on as Chief of Naval Operations through two, now beginning a third, administrations.”

Kelley took another sip of his drink and put the glass down on the armrest of the chair.

“In addition, I’ve heard you’re straight to the point, and don’t suffer fools. I like that a lot, especially in my most important military officer. I’m more than willing to look past our political disagreements if you can promise me to continue in the same manner as CNO.”

“Your Excellency,” Edwina said after a short pause, “I have only one way of doing things, and that’s my own way. If that had been intolerable to you, I would have resigned before you’d had the time to fire me, so I’m appreciative for that at least. My staff at CENTCOM has become a pretty well-oiled machine over these past ten or so years, and I would believe it would be to the general detriment to the Fleet as a whole if it was significantly altered or re-assigned.”

She tasted her drink again.

“However, I’m not an innocent virgin when it comes to political backroom dealings. So I believe it is just about now that you ask me for some favour or other in return for me retaining my current position and staff.”

The president smiled that cold smile of his and picked up one of the dossiers he had put away, and opened it, retrieved a couple of pages and handed them to Edwina. She accepted them gingerly, her face still the same neutral mask, but her stomach was threatening to do somersaults.

Let’s see just how much of my soul I have to sell to avoid an idiot like O’Toole or Mendoza taking over as CNO…

Her eyes skimmed the content of the first page, a pretty terse press statement, traditionally worded by an unimaginative press officer at the Constitution Palace communications staff.

“Latife Çavdarli as Secretary of the Navy, really? I would have thought you’d put a more…” Edwina really wanted to say “bloodthirsty” but managed to reel her tongue in before using the polemic adjective.

“…Passionate senior member of the Liberal Progressive Party in that post. Çavdarli doesn’t even have a military background, as far as I am aware, while someone like Rasmussen or Thap-Min does. Not that I’m complaining mind you, I like Çavdarli, she’s a fellow Thracian and without becoming too political, publicly supports a lot of bills that I am personally partial to.”

“You won’t like the choice of Defense Secretary though,” Kelley said in response, “I gave Winston Daifallah the good news last night.”

Edwina suppressed the urge to grimace. Daifallah was a firebrand with more than a whiff of the populist about him, playing the anti-Auroran card as often as he could, doing his part in nourishing the growing xenophobic sentiment in the Alliance populace.

“Well, I won’t have to deal with him all that often, so that’s at least something. If that’s the worst you throw at me, then that’s a trade I am very comfortable accepting.”

“Page two,” the president said simply and pointed to the other piece of paper. Edwina furrowed her brow slightly and skimmed that one as well. Then her eyebrows mutinied against the harsh regime of calmness that the rest of her face practiced.

“A public promise to increase naval on-paper strength and tonnage by thirty-three per cent in four years?”

“The penalty if this is not accomplished is your job and your entire naval career.”

Kelley’s eyes were icy cold.

“No cushy desk job to fall back on, no ship or station command, not even as a janitor on a remote listening post. Ignoble retirement is the only thing that would be waiting for you. And of course a small forest’s worth of State Secrets Non-Disclosure papers for you to sign once you’re booted out. Breathing a word of whatever you’ve ever done at the Stage would be considered breach of the National Security Act, and punishable by decades in prison. Still want to accept the suggested trade?”

Edwina’s dark eyes met his grey ones. Oh fuck you, I am more than willing to pick up the glove that you’re throwing down, bring it on. Her thin smile rivalled the president’s.

“If it keeps fuckwits like Jackson O’Toole out of the CNO chair, then sure, I’ll still sign on. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, by over the past ten years the Fleet has increased by two million employees and added more than fifty-five million tonnes over replacement.”

Again, the president surprised her by clapping his hands together and smiling again.

“Excellent, just excellent! I knew you had balls, Edwina, I was absolutely sure of it. Király and Daifallah told me you were a cold bitch, and by God is that exactly what I want in my CNO.”

He rose from the chair, walked over to the bar and brought the bottle of mezcal back before topping off both their glasses. He put it on a table and resumed his seat.

“Why don’t you give me a little rundown on the status of the Fleet, just a preview of what we’ll surely be talking about ad nausea for the next four years? I’ve not yet had time to read all the reports and heaps of preparatory briefing material that’s been thrown my way for two weeks now, so I’d appreciate a personal walkthrough, so to speak.”

Edwina opened her mouth just as a staffer poked her head in through the door. She squeaked an apology as she noticed the president and the uniformed admiral and disappeared as quickly as she had materialised. Kelley made a “go on” gesture with his free hand and Edwina supposed he would humour him, wetting her throat with the stinging alcohol.

“I suppose I can give you a little highlights package. Fundamentals first; the Alliance Space Navy currently has a battleship strength of sixty-six with a further twenty-eight in various stages of construction, two-hundred and four cruisers, of which seventy-eight are heavy and one-twenty-six are light, and a hundred and ninety destroyers. In addition are about five-hundred and seventy supporting vessels of varying types and classifications, in total crewed by around one-point-three million enlisted and officers, plus another four-hundred thousand civilian employees spread out across both space-going platforms and ground-based stations. The Alliance Marine Corps is, as you know, its own separate organisation which only falls under the purview of the Fleet, but there is naturally a symbiotic relationship between the two branches.”

“And how does this compare to the Auroran navy?” Edwina didn’t even pretend to be surprised by the question she knew the president had been dying to ask.

“I was getting to that, Your Excellency, which is why I mentioned ‘fundamentals’. Over the past thirty years, the Fleet has expanded by more than forty per cent in terms of hull numbers, some thirty-ish per cent in number of personnel, both regular and reservists, and close to seventy per cent in total tonnage. None of the ships in service when I took over as CNO are still in commission, and the average age of our combatant platforms is less than twenty-five years, which is significantly better than most of the Aurora battle fleet, to the tune of ten to thirteen years, depending on ship type. That’s the good news. The bad news is that in terms of total tonnage, we are still woefully short of the mark of the Royal Navy.”

She chose deliberately to use the correct title of the Auroran naval service, and she noticed that miniscule twitch in the corner of Kelley’s mouth again.

“While the Royal Navy currently has seventy-four battleships in commission, over half of them fifty-plus year old hulls, they nearly all outweigh and outgun our own designs. Furthermore, they have fifty-six battlecruisers as well, and although sixteen of those are slated for retirement, the rest are on par with our own battleships in terms of tonnage, and many of them are even more heavily armed than their own battleships.”

“I’m not sure I follow the distinctions made and the labels here,” the president interrupted, “what differentiates a battleship from a battlecruiser, and why are the Auroran ones bigger and presumably better than ours? It seems like by the numbers you just described that we’re building and replacing more ships than the Blues if they have that many old ships in service, so why are you sounding so worried?”

The Fleet Admiral sighed and sipped her drink again, and before she could react she was topped up by the president. Is he trying to drink me under the table or something? Hoping I might say something incriminating?

“It ultimately boils down to military procurement and strategy as a built policy, Your Excellency. The Auroran navy and society have a tradition of making warships that stretches back literally centuries. This is important for a number of factors, with the biggest being the accumulation of know-how in the work force, adaption of the economy and industry to accommodate for such large and complex construction projects, and a social tradition of service in the Royal Navy. The Royal Navy is, for all intents and purposes, too large an organisation for a polity like the Kingdom of Aurora to functionally exist, had it not been for the butterfly effect it has on their society as a whole, and the way it is able to mobilise the work force, not to mention their aristocracy. Historically, aristocracies have been a net burden on societies, consuming much larger parts of the collective wealth than what they produce.”

She realised with a pang that she was waist deep in dangerous political waters; a central tenet to the Liberal Progressives’ political ideology was the abolition of patrician classes, and there were in their eyes no worse enemy of the state and the people than aristocrats and nobility, and the Auroran one was their absolute anathema. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. Kelley seemed to pay the comment no mind, and seemed genuinely interested in the impromptu lecture.

“Large parts of the Auroran nobility, though far from all of them mind you, lead careers in the Royal Navy, composing a disproportionate part of their officer corps compared to their percentage of the population as a whole. They sort of serve as paragons of dedication and service to the nation which is readily emulated by others, which might seem a bit trite, but there are libraries’ worth of research papers and studies that confirm this hypothesis. Returning to a built policy theory, Sir, the most distinct advantage the Aurorans have over the Alliance, is that their navy is designed from the keel out as a power projection force, with their primary role as a decisive action, positive fleet-in-being force.”

She could basically see the president’s eyes glass over a bit, and she cleared her throat.

“What that means is that the Royal Navy is designed to operate in large formations in wartime with a priority to force a decisive engagement which they will most likely win due to the much heavier and uniform armament of their major combatants. Fleet-in-being with a positive connotation is the theory of a navy being a major influence on interstellar and military policy of their own and foreign nations through the sheer force it represents should it be launched. The Royal Navy is just that, and the pledge you’d have me to sign is an indirect reaction to its very potential of power.

When it comes to the discrepancy in firepower, I’ll be the first to admit that the Aurorans’ commitment to a completely different hull design was a stroke of genius. If you’ll allow me, Sir.”

Edwina grabbed the press release regarding Latife Çavdarli’s appointment as Secretary of the Navy and put it on the low table between them, and pulled a pen out from an inner pocket of her navy-and-white jacket, before starting to scribble and doodle on the blank space on the paper.

“This one,” she said, pointing to the long rectangular shape to the left, “is the general outline of the port broadside of one of our warships. Bear in mind there are differences between classes and designs, there always will be, but this captures the gist of the overall shapes.”

She followed up by pointing to the longer, thinner shape with the long tower roughly in the middle.

“And that is the general shape of the Auroran warships. You’ll notice they are much thinner along the flanks, their engine and forward sections are much larger than the main hull, and they have very tall superstructures. And then have a look at this.”

She drew some more, and flipped the paper back towards the president.

“This is a comparison of the two from the top. Notice our ships have a much, much smaller berth, whereas the Aurorans have intentionally made the middle parts of their main hulls elongated and the widest point of their ships. That is because of our differing design philosophies when it comes to warship armament. Our battleships generally have five or six decks of broadside railgun batteries, supplemented by a significant number of forward and flank torpedo launchers. Auroran battleships, by contrast, are continually reducing the number of broadside batteries in favour of large turret-mounted railcannons, placed on these elongated flanks and the central line of the main hulls. This reduces their rate and volume of fire, but makes each of their broadsides much more powerful, since these are of such a large calibre to make even the most advanced titanium warship armour seem obsolete.”

“Why hasn’t the Navy simply copied these designs, if you’re aware of the shortcomings of your own armament?”

It was an innocent enough question, but it betrayed that the one who had posited the question really didn’t know anything about naval architecture and design, and it required all of Edwina’s impressive ability to restrain herself from pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Instead, she smiled in what she hoped was a neutral enough manner.

“Because, Sir, I was getting to it,” shit, more polite, “that being the other part of the built policy argument. The point about the Auroran industry is very important, because they have built up the know-how to manufacture complicated warship designs and components over the course of decades and centuries. These guns, their fittings, and internal magazine systems are so large and complicated to manufacture, that they require almost as long as it takes to complete the rest of the ship. A warship is, after all, not all that different from a civilian ship when you remove the complicated pieces of technology, like sensor systems, gravpulse arrays, drone launcher, magazine systems, guns, and the frankly immense amount of titanium and reactive armour. The crux of the matter is that our weapons industry doesn’t have the expertise to recreate these types of weapons, and our shipbuilders don’t know how to create hulls that would incorporate them effectively. If we tried, we’d end up with sub-par ships that would perform worse than our current ones. I’d love to sit here and say we have a panacea up our sleeves over at NAVCENTCOM, but sadly that would be a lie, Sir.”

“Hm, that’s a shame,” President Kelley said, and stroked his chin in thought. He rose and walked over to the window and regarded the view for a few silent moments. Edwina wasn’t entirely sure if what she had said had really made all that much sense to the president, but she couldn’t really come up with a way to explain it in a more pedagogic way, so she contended herself with finishing her drink while the president pondered.

“What would you need in order to come up with said panacea?” Kelley said at length just as Edwina was putting her empty glass down, and covering it with the doodled-on paper to indicate she had had enough.

“Fifty years of collective shipbuilding and armoury experience, a naval budget size fifty per cent larger than todays, about a million more men and women in uniform, and another two or three naval bases,” she quipped, allowing herself to smirk slightly.

“I can’t give you the first, but I can certainly try to give the latter items.”

Edwina’s smirk turned into a half-cough of surprise.

“Your Excellency, it was a poor attempt at a joke, I wasn’t being serious.”

Kelley’s tone didn’t change a bit.

“But I was, Admiral Bradford. I can give you the money to put into R&D, for experimental platforms, and ultimately for the hulls themselves; the personnel to complete this is a given of course.”

Edwina could only pinch the bridge of her nose. Does he know how unrealistic he is being? He expects me to complete all of this over the course of four years?

“Your Excellency, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but this isn’t something you can simply throw money at and it’ll solve itself, especially since you’ve given me a four-year limit. There is a reason why the Aurorans spent the better part of three decades to perfect their own uniform gun designs, and almost six decades to develop their battlecruisers.”

“And you have their homework notes so to speak, it should take you significantly less time.”

“Sir, have you not listened to me at all? The industry that actually makes the ships doesn’t know how to do what you’re asking, and my officers don’t know how to incorporate such ships into our current naval doctrine.”

“Then they’ll all simply have to learn how to really fucking fast.”

The president had turned back towards Edwina, what could have passed for an affable expression on his face had disappeared in favour of an ice front.

“Because I intend to put the Aurorans in their place, and to do that I need the ships and troops required to make their pompous bowels empty themselves. If that means re-making our navy in half a decade, so be it, and even taking that fleet into battle to prove our ascendancy. The fucking Aurorans and their sanctimonious cronies have had their time in the sun; it is time that the rest of the galaxy claim their spot and shove the complacent assholes firmly back into the graveyard of history where they belong.”

Edwina Bradford knew her mask had slipped, but she couldn’t help it. She knew Terrence Kelley was a hardliner, but not in her wildest dreams had she imagined he was an actual warmonger this detached from reality.

“Your Excellency, the Alliance Space Navy in its current configuration wouldn’t stand a chance in open warfare with the Royal Navy, even if we were able to add a couple of squadrons of new Auroran-style battleships…”

“CNO Bradford,” President Kelley cut her off, voice as cold as his facial expression, but somehow his eyes seemed even frostier, “I believe I have given you an ultimatum. Either comply with my orders, or I will toss you out on your ass and find me a Chief of Naval Operations that will. It goes without saying that I will require admirals and senior officers in all branches of the military willing to follow the orders of the rightfully elected President of the Independent Systems Alliance.”

Edwina rose stiffly from the chair, trying to hide the fact that her hands shook slightly. The man is either a demon or the biggest idiot to ever set his feet into these hallowed halls. She did the only thing she could in the present situation. She saluted.

“Your Excellency, if you permit me, I will start the work immediately.”

A cold smile answered her, and he waved a hand. Edwina turned on her heel, put her peaked cap on and started to leave the room, her emotions broiling in a complicated cascade of fury and terror.

“Oh, and by the way,” the president said just as she opened the door, “I’ve ordered Admiral ibn Houdhri to relinquish command Capitolis Fleet back to Admiral Montmorency, and take up command of Lorelei Fleet. I trust you have no objections?”

Edwina Bradford could veritably feel her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. Wordlessly she slammed the door behind her.

The shuttle folded its wings back up as it descended down the elevator from the flight deck into the boat bay of the Alliance Navy battleship Fimbulvetr, its hull and wings painted white with green stripes. As the elevator came to a stop, a roll-out gangway clacked out from under port side hatch. The moment the hatch opened, the boatswain’s pipes played its trill to denote the arrival of a senior officer, and the advance party of Alliance Marines in tan-coloured battle dress and enlisted and officers in black-and-white Ship Dress uniform came to attention. A lieutenant (junior grade) stepped forward as the first of a number of ASN officers with an impressive amount of gold and red bands along their cuffs and shoulder straps descended the gangway. The lead one came up to the lieutenant and returned the salute.

“Permission to come on board, Sir?” the man asked formally, his voice flanging and unnatural. The youthful lieutenant swallowed.

“Permission to come on board granted, welcome to the Fimbulvetr, Admiral.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

A short-haired woman, wearing the straps and cuffs of a flotilla captain, walked up past the now rapidly retreating lieutenant, and saluted the admiral as well.

“Welcome to Lorelei, Admiral,” she said with a polite smile on her face, “and thank you for choosing Fimbulvetr as your flagship, we certainly won’t embarrass you or the rest of the Fleet. Would you like a tour of the ship while the stewards bring your and your staffs’ luggage to your quarters?”

Admiral Philippe ibn Houdhri el-Ahmadi smiled thinly and ran a hand through his long dark ponytail. The rest of his staff started to form behind him, and the pipes sounded again to dismiss the side party.

“Thank you, Captain Chambers, I would like a tour very much, I’ve never set foot on an Entente class battleship. And have no fear, we will have much to do the coming months, the crew of Fimbulvetr and the rest of Lorelei Fleet will not be sitting by idly.”