Formalities Aside
Professor. That was what everyone was calling him. He had arrived on New London several hours prior, at the BMM's beckoning, it was the first time in 7 long years. No-one at the 90 story BMM office knew him, but they know of him. And with what the knew, they called him Professor. He despised the formalities that come hand in hand with new places and new faces.
Back on Cambridge, he had many names, "old codger" and "silly old git" were some of the less pleasant epithets he held among his colleagues, though he preferred to be called "Arthur", not "Arty" like some of the undergraduates took to calling him. He was old, no mistaking it, but the allure of retirement was offset by one particular affliction, one that he felt continued work would prevent. He did not like to name it outright, he would say "It rhymes with Valencia".
The nature of his posting worried him. His expertise lay in Physics, with some rudimentary knowledge of engineering, and Bretonia is at war. The war seemed distant, sitting at his desk on Cambridge, but arriving in New London gave it a tinge of reality. There were not exactly sandbags lining the streets, but you can be assured of the war footing the planet was on by the lines of fighter craft at the civilian space port he landed on, coupled with the temporary anti-air batteries that were thrown up after New London was entered. It was disturbing, contrasting heavily to the New London he knew.
He arrived on the 84th floor, and after a short wait he was let in to the office where a small panel of BMM employees sat.
"Gentlemen. I do not believe we have had the pleasure", he muttered out slightly, formalities never seemed to come out of his mouth right.
"Please, take a seat Professor Morrison, we have much to discuss",
the slightly pale man who was sat closest to the door gestured towards the seat that was vacant to the Professors left.
"Right, the war isn't going to wait, let's get this boffin briefed and have him on his way", an impertinent man, in his mid fifties by the looks of it, blurted out in a blunt fashion. It did not bother Arthur in the slightest, he did not much care for pleasantries after all.
The briefing, despite the haste of some of the participants, took several hours, and Arthur was directed to what they called a "dossier", but was as thick as St James Bible (1st edition), detailing the work expected of him, as well as references to even deeper material that could be found on the database installed on various interfaces found in the places he was to be residing.
One thing disturbed him greatly. Of the places he was to be;
1. A secure apartment located a short walk from the BMM research centre in Brixton Commons;
2. A space faring craft of "unknown qualities", capable of carrying a full compliment of research staff and crew, with defense capabilities sufficient for minor combat;
3. A mobile lab which moves constantly from black site to black site, containing physical and non physical data and experimental materials.
It need not be stated that no#2 was the most concern to Arthur. The black site mobile lab, while exciting, was fairly safe in nature, and Brixton Commons, while not as bad as some parts of New London, was a drab place devoid of social pursuits, which did not present many issues. No#2 contained so many variables that for Arthur it was a little hard to process. A highly cloistered individual who rarely traveled, the prospect of flying all over who knows where was the source of great anxiety. An anxiety that Arthur thought best to drown in some of the local Gin.
Best worry about it tomorrow, when the work begins in earnest, it is going to take many a thimble to drown this worry away, he thought to himself, noticeably picking up the drinking pace.
University of Cambridge
Professor Arthur Morrison
Gathering Courage
The first few days were spent hunkered down in the secure apartment, only leaving for short stints at the Research complex a short distances walk away. There was a lot of information to take in, and there may not be another chance to read up in the peace that was on offer. On the 4th day, a call came in from the research complex, again Arthur was given 15 minutes to get ready, a transport was to pick him up on the pad positioned on top of his apartment complex. He speedily collected the pair of trousers that were hanging over the bed stand and put them on. He focused best without trousers on (he still wore his shirt and jacket), one of his many quirks.
Before long the transport signaled for him to come to the pad, and they sped of in the direction of space, breaking into the thick layer of cloud that frankly seemed to permanently reside over New London, the small transport vanishing as if swallowed whole by a thick grey fog resembling Cretan Cigar smoke. Within moments the ship had past the docking ring, waiting only for a Police Hussar heading out on patrol to pass through first. As an eternal seeker of knowledge - some not always worth seeking (such as the difference in dog behavior on New London vs Cambridge) - a strong niggling feeling ran up his spine when no one seemed to want to tell him where he was going.
Before long, the transport made dock at Waterloo just outside New London. Arthur made out the silhouette of a medium sized ship that was hooked up to the station like it was attached with a umbilical cord. It was not long before the professor was walking through that very same cord, several minutes later.
Upon entering the ship through the access port, the professor was greeted by what seemed to be the captain of the ship,
"Welcome to the Survey Vessel Collie, professor. Your lab is located just below the bridge, on the belly of this ship. If we crash land on some moon, hit an asteroid directly below us, or crash land on New London after we are shot down by a Gallic Cruiser, your lab will likely be crushed immediately on impact, which is fortunate, as I am sure the rest of us will burn in the ensuing inferno, a far more painful way to go." the captain spoke in the most deadpan of tones. It was clear, from the accent, that he was from Leeds, and Leeds folk tended to take Bretonian humour everywhere they went. The jokes did little to ease the Professors worries. Concern was painted all over the professors face, "You'll find your courage in those uncharted caves, my good man, don't you worry", the Captain made an attempt at encouragement, "If you can't, the Officers mess has a large collection of liquid variety you can sample, as long as it doesn't get in the way of your work" he finished with a smirk.
After making his way to the lab, and greeting what were to become his field staff, the rumble of the engines was made noticeable by the minor vibrations in the white plasteel walls that formed the lab section of the ship. The captain, like everyone else, had neglected to mention that we were about to depart, and furthermore, neglected to mention where to. It was clear from the ships movements that one Jump Gate had been entered, and the orange hew which could be seen from out of the many digital "port holes" the ship provided, told the professor he was in Dublin. After that, several more jumps seemed to happen, but the professor could not make head or tails where he was. He thought he saw a lush but small planet that he had read of in the many Cambridge University magazines that littered the campus congregation areas, but it was too far in the distance to make out clearly.
The jumps had ended, and now the ship seemed to fly around for what seemed quite a while. This was until he came into view of what looked like a Gallic Battleship. A sense of dread hit the professor. That's it, i'm done for, I should never have been so eager to enter this research posting, my stupid sense of desk chair patriotism blinded me from my distinct lack of experiences in danger, the thoughts raced through his head at a thousand a minute. No sooner had his thoughts ended, that the battleship faded from sight, he asked one of the staff in his lab for an explanation; "Oh, I think that's one of those Council ships Professor, you know, the "good Gauls" as it were", it infuriated him that everyone else seemed to know something he did not.
"Professor, we are coming into range of a space anomaly one of our scouts mapped out earlier. We will be engaging the scanner you boffins built us on Cambridge, we need you to get to work immediately to process the data, removing any useless data from the stream and logging what we need for you know what " the Captain spoke, in a distinctly more professional manner to the original greetings. The "you know what" the Captain was referring to was the creatively named "Project A" in the dossier, the science for which Professor Morrison was made responsible. It must get a new name, he was determined.
The work with the anomalies continued for some time, after the first anomaly was completed, the ship moved to another one that was pre-scouted. Scouting was paramount, according to the Captain, as he did not want to stay in this system for more than was required, the reason why exactly he didn't want to stay for long was not forthcoming, which again bothered the professor, though by now, as the Captain had said, the professor had started to find his courage, mostly by focusing on the collection work.
After the ship had made it's way half way back to New London, the ship docked at an unknown station, the data collected was then carefully bundled by several bulky looking gentlemen wearing unassuming outfits that bore no emblems who had entered the ship. They did not look like scientists, and while the conversations they had with the junior staff revealed they were indeed Bretonian, their accents seemed to give away their high social status too. bulky, no emblems and yet upper-middle class? They were either military, or something else entirely. "Professor, you will be given remote access to this data once it has been secured, only under absolute necessity will the originals be provided. God save the queen." one of the men spoke in a sharp tone.
And so it was over, the first day spent of many in so called "collections". The first day would be the most stressful, Arthur reassured himself, the second, the third, the fourth and the fifth may also be quite stressful, but the sixth, seventh and eighth would surely be an order of magnitude less on edge.
As on his first day, after the BMM office briefing, the professor felt the need drink away the tension, so he decided to take the Captains offer of liquid courage up. Several bottles of the various house tipples were found in the officers mess. "I recommend the Whiskey, and it is appropriate of course" the Captain said while taking a pair of glasses from glass rack under the drinks cabinet. "I do not understand why it is appropriate, but then again I seem to be out of the loop with most things, don't you think?", the Professor spoke in a resigned tone. "Don't worry, a few weeks and you'll know more than anyone, that I can guarantee. You'll be with us for several weeks, collecting the data, then you will begin your work down planetside", the Captain did not seem to be speaking sarcastically, the professor's markedly eyes felt dry as the prospect of more surprises robbed him of the concentration required to remember to blink. "And Captain, you wouldn't mind uh, telling me your name would you?", the professor asked with a genuinely perplexed manner, "Captain Barnes, at your service", the Captain spoke jovially, while pouring a dram of whisky for the Professor and himself.
That'll hit the spot.
A Royal Welcome
After several weeks of hair thinning treks to and from the 'field' research sites and cold conversations with the "collectors" as he described them, that is, if they bothered to speak, it was deemed satisfactory to delegate the collection to others, while Professor Morrison was moved to what would become his work place for the actual development work.
Contrary to his previous experiences, the information was plenty on his place of work. In fact, it was a relatively famous institution within BMM and the military weapon development arm. Despite the secrecy around his work, in order to make the research into reality, the practical experience of the development teams was paramount. And of course, they need not know where the data came from, only that they were making advanced weaponry. From the outside too, news of weapon development at a site known for weapon development would be of no surprise, in this sense, the highly secret "project A" would benefit greatly from hiding in plain sight.
Such sites were the target for espionage, and even minor development of light arms, fighter weaponry or the various munitions that are developed at the site, were subject to rigorous security, and no one would bat their eyelids at being told something is secret, everything was a secret here.
On the first day, the Professor was greeted by the various staff, engineering, testing, security, administration, logistics and so on, no one he spoke to gave their full names, and it was a wonder if the names they did give were theirs. The last person to be greeted was the facility chief, a government appointed figure by the name of Sidney Morcombe, a veteran civil servant of the defense department who had been "moved out" of the department proper due to his lax attitude to spending. A post at one of the biggest money sinks in Bretonia it was thought would sate his appetite for big spending, and prevent him from authorizing ludicrous spending where it need not be, it was rumored that it was his idea to fit every craft with the ability to make tea, a popular move, but one that the defense department saw as an unnecessary cost. The department threw him out when he suggested "Tea 2.0", which would have involved providing fine porcelain to all ships as opposed to the more homely options they had currently, in addition to biscuit and cake dispensers to accompany the tea.
"Welcome old chap to the Royal Arsenal, her Majesties finest developer of killing devices and machines. I hope you have had a royal welcome from our staff? Don't mind them if they seem a little stand offish, and forget about remembering their names" he greeted the Professor in a typically Upper class accent and manner, jovial, but giving no delusion that he did not give a damn if you slipped and broke your neck on his desk 5 seconds later. "I will be working in block 5, I am told, I trust the facilities are ready for us to get started? I am being told to provide results post haste" the Professor replied, straight to the point, he knew it was useless to engage in pleasantries, he could tell that Morcombe was already tired of his presence, even before he spoke. "Yes yes, well, I have pressing engagements to see to, so if you don't mind..." Morcombe replied without so much as a pause, the Professor wondered, judging by the time of day, that said engagements were a fancy lunch or a half round of golf somewhere, the upper class tended to take "work hard, play hard" quite seriously.
With that, the professor made his way to block 5, where he hoped all was set in place for work to begin in earnest.
Project A, Arthur never did get around to renaming it, and that was his first task. "Right. Now we can't be called the Project A team. I have given this some thought, and I have decided that we shall be called Project Ringil", the Professor proclaimed, gauging the expressions of the assembled staff to determine if they approved or not, the reception to his name was mostly neutral, at best. He was tempted to explain the reference, but doing so would likely cause a few sniggers, so he put away the thought. This project will set about equipping our newest warships with effective weaponry to down larger or equal foes. The class of ship that were to equip them was classified, but nevertheless the measurements of the encasing, the power requirements and what level of recoil was acceptable among many other details were provided with pinpoint accuracy, indicating that this new class was not far from battle readiness.
The stage was set, and the first day of development had begun, he hoped it would not take too long to finalize the design and make the weapons usable using the valuable data collected, though he dreaded the thought of returning to his space escapades. The project would run until the weapon was finished, but would continue to pump out the weapons to request, as long as fresh data and requests from the military came in, but once the initial set up was complete, it was hoped that more junior staff could handle the life cycle of the project.
Needless to say the first day in the new environment was exhausting, and each new environment added another layer of concern to the Professor. Such was his habit, he took to the local watering holes to handle this. The area around the facility was slightly more downtrodden in comparison to the area near the apartment complex, despite the close proximity. As such, Gin was in short supply, and in its place, a more homely brew of the local craft ale was on offer. While its lukewarm temperature and strong, fruity taste was not exactly a perfect fit, he acknowledged its merits, a sense of fullness was provided by the high content of yeast, which also lowered the alcohol content, allowing a wholesome drinking experience not found in the harder liquors.
A slight smile came to his face when he took his first mouthful of ale, being filled with a tender, warm sensation.
A Second Front
"Eureka!" The professor screamed. Except he didn't, no, he hadn't discovered a new element or how to turn a moon into space stations equipped with enlarged laser cannons. No, he had just fixed the cooling issue for the prototype of Project Ringil. The prototype was done, field tests aside, there was little for the Professor to do but wait for test results, make adjustments, send for more tests, make more adjustments ad nauseam. Easy street for a few weeks, he thought. He thought.
"Professor, Mr Morcombe is ready to see you now", the secretary, who looked in her early forties, gestured to the door to the left of her oak, slightly tea stained desk. "Ah, the Professor, take a seat, take a seat!" Morcombe was in a giddy mood it seemed, which Arthur had come to learn meant only one thing, spending. "Now then, word from the war office, we have been given funding for a new project, well I should say, the funding was already secured, but its release has been expedited", as expected, the government had left a pile of cash under Morcombes' pillow and he has started jumping on the bed in glee like a six year old. "But what about the current project? We are still not production ready! My team has not rested in weeks, Thomson got his pinkie burnt to a cinder the other day testing the heat release, he hadn't slept the night previous" the professor appealed, as if he was acting in a theatre production where the king's adviser was trying to stop the king's excesses, but like the play, he was only playing his role, and he knew the script wasn't allowing the king to see reason.
And with that, "Project B" was born. "What is with these names, anyway? I thought we were better than this" Arthur mumbled to himself. After calling his team to attention, weary faces all around they gathered. "Well gents and gentress, I have uh" the professor could not help but to take an elongated deep breath mid-sentence, "I have some good news. The government has recognized our hard work, and has rewarded us with a brand new assignment as recognition of our talents", he could make out at least three sets of glazed eyes in the crowd, and he was sure he had seen someone swallow their lips hole and squint their eyes tightly, making a face you would make while watching someone being stabbed. "Unfortunately, our current project is not complete and we have a test phase to go through. As such, I will be dividing the team, 7:3, the majority of you will join the new project, while the rest will be charged with seeing Ringil to production and handle subsequent requisitions to the project. We will be able to take on new staff, but not to the extent that I would have hoped", the Professor began walking mid sentence, over to a nameplate that was covered by a dark red drape that had a long golden rope dangling to eye level. "I hereby open, and christen this new project, Project Dramborleg" and in near unison, Arthur pulled the golden rope, revealing a white placard which had the project name written in black.
"Professor, this new project, what's it for?" a young staffer took interest in the nature of the new project and addressed the Professor after raising his hand and receiving a nod that it was fine to ask a question. "Well, unlike Ringil, we are more clear in our purpose. This project will be for Cruiser based weapons. There are many similarities to Ringil in nature, but the requirements are slightly different" the professor was happy at least that the project would have less uncertainties, and some of the work could be carried over. And with that, the professor retired to the break room, his mouth as dry as a devils arsecrack, and in need of serious refreshment.
He found the case of Vodka Captain Barnes brought back from his last trip to Omega 2, he had apparently traded limited access to the research zone there for valuable supplies, and the Coalition captain saw fit to provide a few crates of Vodka for him in return. This limited access was on a local level and unfortunately not official. Vodka was not a common sight in Bretonia, though there were stories from the recently annexed Planet Sydney that Coalition settlers were setting up distilleries on the surface and trading with the Bretonians there, this in turn was making its way back to Bretonian proper, it was not long before a proper market was established for the beverage it was hoped.
Arthur took the vodka the old fashioned way, a least as it was written in the many earth data sources. Shot glasses that were almost frozen, followed by a generous helping of salted snacks and bread, mustn't forget the bread. When he was down to his last slice of bread, he took to sniffing it following each shot, running out of bread was sacrosanct, and sniffing was a substitute to eating.
He was going to feel this one in the morning.
Not a Game
Time has passed. Not a great deal of time in the scheme of things, but enough time for progress to be made. The high speed of progress made on both projects has left some of the more senior staff questioning quality control, their concerns are well founded, some times projects can go too well, but there was reason behind the progress, reasons only the professor was privy to within the project.
At this rate, both projects would essentially be able to pump out small quantities of experimental weaponry for both Cruisers and Battlecruisers within a few days. Naturally, Project C was announced already in similar fashion to Project B, and the team was again split up to pursue the new project. Again, the professor renamed the project, this time to "Project Gurthang", and again the new name was met with sniggers, blank faces and overall lack of enthusiasm. This would prove to be the biggest project of the three, a culmination of all the knowledge and experience attained so far, and it was for the largest of the capital ships, Battleships. All seemed to be going swimmingly.
So, what is the issue? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as the old saying goes. But the burden of knowledge weighed heavily in Arthur. To be perfectly honest, as a thinker, a scientist, it left a bad taste in his mouth to be working under such conditions. What conditions, you ask? The designs, the blueprints, all of them, not of the professors making. Frankly speaking, some of the weaponry that was being tested did not even look Bretonian, where did these blueprints come from? The answer lay in the very first day of this whole experience. The Dossier handed to the professor. Two initials lay gilded into the surface cover, "T&G", the intitials did not ring any bells in the professors mind, however the letters were accompanied by an emblem no full blooded Bretonian would fail to recognize.
It was a branch of the Armed Forces, naturally this entire project was for their benefit, and as much as BMM makes its name for building their ships, in this particular case, it was the Armed forces who were providing the design, and BMM were playing dogs body. Make no mistake, this fact was the source of annoyance for many at BMM, and the professor? Well, pride as a scientist aside, he thought at least this would speed up the project life cycle, and end his tenure at BMM, at least he hoped so.
The Professor knew better, however. The three projects were just the start, and even once the get to the point of manufacturing weapons, they cannot do so without the professor at the helm. Which is to say, when the Armed forces stop needing weapons, he will stop being needed. A quick glance out of the apartment window, in the direction of the local spaceport told the professor, that such a day was a long ways away. And even if the current war is resolved, let us not fool ourselves, in the cold space above, there is only war.
After several weeks, Project Gurthang was ready to ship it's first prototype. In the space of a few months, the professor had - with much assistance - been able to get the Arsenal in a position to supply and Cruiser, Battlecruiser and Battleship with advanced weaponry, on order. It was at this point, the professor took three days leave, to take stock.
He decided to spend the three days, far, far away from New London, and with permission, was granted leave of the system to travel to the luxury Liner positioned next to Carlisle, in Newcastle. The war had hit Newcastle hard as of late, word had spread to the Liner that a Gallic battleship had destroyed Belfast on the other side of the system, and was eyeing up the Shipyard nearby. Getting to Newcastle was no mean feat, with the gate deactivated, a more indirect route had to be found, BMM was gracious enough to provide the transportation for this trip. In-fact, it was BMM who suggested the trip in the first place, a fact that perhaps upon further inspection should have been given more attention.
The professor arrived at what his body clock judged to be the early evening, after unpacking his luggage, he removed his britches, neatly folded his trousers and placed them on a hangar in the dresser opposite his bed. He then proceeded to pull a from his luggage a medium sized paper weight, one that was slightly weighted to one side. He took the weight, inspected it for a moment, and then placed atop his head, the weight of the stone could be felt distinctly. He then sat there, on the bed, eyes closed, attempting to achieve perfect balance, while the stone, being weighted to one side, attempted to find its way to the floor. He kept this up for around an hour. This bizarre exercise, to the professor, was his way of managing stress, and becoming balanced. During this exercise, a large buzz was heard from the direction of the door, upon which, the stone fell to the ground, and landed squarely on the professors left foot, to much ire. "Can't a man get a moments peace?" He shouted at the door, his exercise seemingly being made useless in the space of a few seconds. "I am deeply sorry, Professor, but I absolutely must get this message to you." The voice from the other side of the door, in a most apologetic tone replied to the shout. After reacquainting himself with his trousers, the professor opened the door, and a man in a red hotel uniform handed him a small white card, covered in delicately designed patterns, almost as if it were a wedding information.
After seeing the man on his way, he opened the card, and in it;
ーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーー
Dear Professor Morrison,
It is my pleasure to invite you for a casual conversation in the upper bar area on this fine vehicle,
I trust you have rested well, I will see you at 21:00 sharp.
Regards,
Technology and Grants Department "T&G" (aka Toys and Games), Bretonia Armed Forces
ーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーー
was written in fine ink, the handwriting style indicating the high education of the writer. The card was unsigned, a fact that no longer seemed to bother the professor, and despite it being an invitation, there was little room for rejecting it, short of dropping dead in the meanwhile, or for someone to release some of the bacteria found on Carlisle into the ship.
Toys and Games, is it? The sense of humor the military seemed to have, was on full show, it was not a game to the professor, and not his type of game either, but nevertheless he found himself a player within in it.
He found his way to the bar, as requested. Upon sitting at the black marble counter of the bar, the barkeep spoke up after a few moments silence, "The Professor I assume? We had the bar cleared for you, though with the war, there was only a handful of clientele to move", and with this, he placed a small, ornate bottle on the counter, together with two small cups which resembled small upside down UFO, what we thought alien ships looked like before the human race really took to the stars. "Sake, sir." And with those words, he walked off to the other side of the bar, just out of earshot. Within moments, the professor heard footsteps from behind, and a man moved towards the bar seat to his right, which was closer to the exit.
"Care for an evening drink, Professor? Allow me", the man poured the sake into both cups, and waited for the professor to drink, before he did. The pouring, and the waiting were a sign of respect, as the professor was considerably older.
Backwater Blues
The last few months had not been kind to the Professor. Initially, the R&D division was based around New London, and conducted research trips up to the Orkney system, trying to be as discreet as possible in the largely hostile system. Security was low enough to get away with it, mostly. Around two months into this however, the BMM, seeking to trade higher risk for higher reward, shifted the operations to Omega-3, taking advantage of the proximity to anomalies in the nearby Omega-2 system. With this, the BMM constructed a modular base in proximity to Sprague, under the umbrella of the former Battleship, turned prison, H.M.S Gwent. The conflict to come, was not predicted.
The Red Hessians attacked Sprague shortly after the Norfolk arrived in the system to annex Aland shipyard, seen as vital to the war effort, from the Independent Miners Guild. BMM was to take ownership of the shipyard - much to their delight - but there was a snag. The IMG did not see eye to eye with the Bretonian Government. While the majority of IMG bases were indeed within Bretonian space, and many of their membership were Bretonian stock, they simply refused the request for temporary transfer of the Shipyard. The professor, alien to space borne politics, was confused to say the least. In light of this, the Norfolk moved from its post in Cambridge, and began waltzing in the direction of the shipyard. Anything that left the ice field that surrounded the shipyard was destroyed with impunity. Then the Hessian attack happened.
The Gwent stood little chance. Unable to move and sitting in the Sprague orbit, the battleship hull was pounded from a distance. Fighter wings and bomber wings were deployed from both the Gwent and the planet, and nearby Gunboat patrols engaged the Hessian wings sent to screen their capital ships assault on Gwent. It looked pretty grim. Onboard Medway Dock, - the base BMM constructed for research purposes - the Professor looked on in horror. Some of the crew attempted to persuade Captain Barnes to launch the Collie research ship, which was armed, to join the fray. He convinced them that there was no place in the battle for them.
When all seemed lost, a large force of Destroyers from the Norfolk, together gunboat, bomber and fighter escort, arrived on the scene, and the battle turned drastically in the BAF favor. The Hessians were caught surprised. Most of their ordinance was spent destroying the Gwent, and in the fight with the defenders of Sprague. The hammer fell hard. The Hessian capital ships attempted to make a break for it, before the Norfolk brought its' full might to bare, some of the Hessians made for the safety of Aland, and many cruisers, gunboats, fighters and bombers made it to the IMG installation in one piece. But the larger capitals, and much of the escort force, was raked from repeated ordinance launched from the Destroyers, and many cruisers were bombarded mercilessly by bomber and gunboat heavy weaponry. The main Hessian force made its' retreat to an adjacent Omega system, heavily wounded, and the Norfolk's escorts returned to formation. After more fighting, the Norfolk captured Aland, utilizing experimental tactics that only worked partially. The operation was costly, but it completed its goal. Damage to the Norfolk battlegroup, including the loss of a Dunkirk, was seen as acceptable. Cambridge was seen as unlikely to face an assault by Gallia any time soon.
The Norfolk made its way back to Cambridge, and the Core, who partook in the assault on Aland, were tasked with security for the system, with capital ships positioned next to the shipyard. The BMM, as originally tasked, took over management of the now damaged Aland shipyard, and began repairs. The professor, faced with damage to his own station, took stock of the situation, and regrouped. Much of his station crew were suffering from trauma, mostly emotional, but some physical, were given leave to Sprague.
Contrary to the traumatic situation in Omega-3, BMM executives, as ever, saw the situation through rose tinted lens. They had gained a shipyard, damaged, yes, but it was a new asset to them. Furthermore, the IMG, a long standing rival, were now persona non grata in Bretonia, and they could take over IMG operations in due course. In Omega-3, they saw the Cobalt resources as a new source of revenue for themselves. No executive ever saw fit to visit Omega-3, but they wrote up a long list of orders, and sent them to the BMM within the system.
1. Begin servicing damaged ships immediately;
2. Repair Aland and get it fully operational;
3. Begin making capital ships, immediately upon repair of the facilities;
4. Medway dock is to be given a dual role, to include Cobalt mining operational support;
5. IMG ships found within Omega-3 are to be aggressively pursued and evicted;
6. Begin exploring mining interests in Omega-2 for the future, again based on Medway.
This set of orders reached Morrison's desk shortly after they were made. For him, a bad situation was being made worse. Struggling to get his research efforts back on track, he was now being told to manage a mining operation, well beyond his remit, and completely alien to him. Nevertheless, he was posted to BMM, and could not rightly refuse. He hoped to secure external support for the mining part, perhaps exploring a relationship with the BMF; anything to avoid doing it himself.
For reasons unknown, a shipment of Liberty Ale was delivered to the dock, so far from Liberty, it was a confusing delivery, perhaps a Universal shipping trader passing by decided to take pity on the residents of Sprague - them having endured a harrowing few months - and decided to drop off what they considered to be fine alcohol. The professor, not one to turn down a tipple, took a bottle for himself, to drink while writing communications to get this mining operation started. The ale was light, almost non existent to the taste-buds of a Bretonian - used to drinking a heavier variety of beer - but it was satisfactory.
Staring at the empty bottle, he considered whether or not Liberty corporations would help his efforts, or if they would dismiss requests for assistance in what some in Liberty viewed as a tainted system.
It's Raining Metal
The "raining" hadn't stopped for days. In recent days, microscopic metal fragments had begun to break off from the Gwent, which had been corroding in the Orbit of Sprague for the last 2 months following its' "battle" with the Hessians. The main body remained partially compacted, but the insides were spewing out like fish guts through a blender, a constant spray of metallic, and sometimes organic waste material, floating in every direction. The planet is the first stop of call for the waste, fortunately for the residents of which, the waste mostly burns up in the atmosphere, and nothing of note happens. This is all on the condition that the main hull of the ship remains stable - a long shot at best - or the ship as a whole doesn't come crashing down in one deathly package. For the Professor, and his base of operations on Medway dock, in Mortar distance of the wreck, the constant rain of materials were taking a toll on the station.
The Base upgrade project was underway in unison with this, and a transport carrying materials for the upgrade was caught in a debris shower just the other day, losing an engine in the process. The captain and his crew had to be compensated for their losses, yet another bill for the project which is likely to face cost overruns.
Orders from the HQ were also in constant flux. "Repair Aland" had turned into "Repair and upgrade Aland", "mine Cobalt" had turned into "mine Cobalt and Uncut Diamonds" and the base was now set to become a market for ore as well as a storage facility. Proximity to the Cobalt field made it an easier stop than the markets situated around Freeport 1, and Bretonian traders tended to avoid Geneva after the conflict in Omega 49 riled up the Zoners.
It was a source of great disappointment to the professor that his posting was turning him to a pen pusher for the BMM. He had joined with great hopes of producing war winning weapons for Bretonia, but was given a more economic role as of late. Next thing you know, they will be asking him to help finalize the new Battlecruiser design to be laid down on Aland, a scary thought.
All things aside, the base upgrade was in progress, with great thanks to the boys over at BMF, who were not afraid of doing some grafting. But the current situation with the Gwent falling apart above his head, necessitated an emergency request to the very same crown corporation, to save his base from head bumping with a de-orbiting Gwent.
The only feasible possibility is to tow the ship to Aland Shipyard, stabilize it to prevent further leakage, and begin the lengthy process of breaking it up for scrap and re-use of components. The ship, with the notable exception of the mox reactor - replaced after its encounter with the Embrun - was fairly state-of-the-art, and could be put to use in similar ships. Getting the ship all the way to Aland was a mean feat, but it remained the only option worth considering. Setting it on course for the sun might work too, but it seemed a waste of resources. Alternatively, Junkers could be given the task of scrapping it on the spot. Though Junkers don't mind the gritty work, and can handle operations with no dry-docks available, the lack of corporate governance and compliance regimes meant the safety of the planet, and indeed the Professors station, would potentially be risked in hiring the Junkers for the work. No, it must be towed to Aland, at the earliest opportunity.
The professor, in order to get this project rubber stamped, headed over to Cambridge to speak with a government official over lunch. Government types were not receptive of bribes. Not with money, but treating them to lunch, with lots of claret or wine, tended to loosen them enough for ideas of your making to enter their thought process. A lunch was arranged with a certain cabinet secretary by the name of Callaghan, senior enough to put a word in the governments ear about funding an operation to move the Gwent to Aland. The wine was locally produced, a Cambridge vintage, expensive, but worth every penny, with metal raining down on his project enough to warrant the overlay.
Heating Up
Not a month has passed since the call to upgrade Medway came. In the space of that month, a considerable upheaval has taken place in Omega-3, things are heating up. The repair work of Aland set the system ablaze. Transports came in droves, fresh with station components for the nearly completed Aland shipyard. A monumental task of logistics that had drained the regional resources of BMM to the limit. Once the shipyard is up and running, it is expected, no, demanded to be pumping out capital ships at pace. Much of the prefabrication of ships had already been conducted offsite, even on the pristine planet of Cambridge, hull sections were being welded together and packed into tankers capable of hauling singular hull sections of considerable size. Sprague, or known locally as Nottingham, named after a major city on the planet, formed the focus of this work due to proximity and availability of land. The idea is that production should be given an initial boost by having all the parts laid down nearby.
But this was a distraction to Morrison, it was not his job. Transports heading to Aland distracted from his upgrade project, seemingly behind schedule, but it had side effects. Cobalt produced by the mines that pocketed the planet was being used as a return commodity, and the local economy had boomed as a result of the government subsidy. Bigger economy means bigger workforces, bigger workforces means more capacity. Following the rush of deliveries to Aland, the system would need to cool down, and in there Morrison had an opportunity to scoop of materials on the cheap, and hire experienced hands for the station. The university professor was always aloof to the affairs of the heavily nationalized economy of Bretonia, there were more liberal economic leanings in his mind, but he was seeing first hand the benefits of a Keynesian flood of government funds to the Nottingham economy, his now second home.
The planet was dreary, looking like it was heading towards becoming a second Leeds in may respects, there was no smog however, yet. The majority of the population was made up of Leeds refugees, that they made it this far away from Leeds means they were those who made it off Leeds before the invasion, some of the first. The early days of the evacuation were less panic driven, those of modest income were able to take their own transport crafts, fill them with all their belongings and relocate to a new planet, losing their home indeed, but able to start anew on an nearly empty planet like Sprague or Canaria. Also in the early days, wealthy factory owners were able to dismantle their machinery, stripping factories to nothingness, and relocate them all to Nottingham to set up new factories. As a result the economy of Nottingham had developed at pace, but very much in the image of Leeds.
Arthur made his daily trip to Nottingham space port, landing on the BMM landing bay, and making his way to the business commons to carry out his duties. He had two duties he wanted to see to. First, he wanted to look for excess station components from the Aland works, he knew there would be some available. Secondly, he needed to speak with a USI rep about getting more transports to help his station.
The first task took him to the local logistics department, and a meeting with the portly harbor master there. He was in luck, 4 bulks of station component were surplus to requirements at Aland, and had made their way to Nottingham. Arthur made quick purchase of these components, and hoped they would provide a boost to his upgrade efforts.
Cargo Manifest
The parts were of considerable weight and bulk, one was a station door, painted with a giant 2. Guess we would have to make do without a 1, he thought. The second was a water purification plant, Kusari design, 2 symbols "浄水" were painted on the side. and he lamented that no one would have a clue what it was. The third component was the jackpot, a station supercomputer, one that would prove invaluable for the ore market that was to be set up on the base. The fourth and final component was less glamorous, A giant solar panel part, one that would be lumped in with the many others.
His second task took him to the local dive. His USI contact waited for him at the bar, Arthur made promises of a lucrative contract for the USI gentlemen, and this made the contact very friendly. A drink? He asked, though he did not wait for an answer before ordering a bottle of Bourbon whisky, imported straight from Houston. Aland was taking in Premium scrap from that system and returning Cobalt ore, which opened up the bars to a new source of liquor.
It burned a little, but the flavour was overall quite sweet. Arthur made his best effort to big up his credentials, hoping that the USI would take his credit potential as a serious one. The base was behind on schedule and his bosses were getting antsy. After the USI contact had made his parting, a small light had begun to flicker on his communication device. Taking a look at the screen, he instinctively knew he needed to find somewhere private. His brain did not work well under pressure, so he made his way to the toilet, closing the door behind, before opening up the communication device while sat on the toilet. It was the Cadiz Cartel, and Outcasts faction that focused on trade. They had agreed to help supply the base, and wished to use the base as a hub for uncut diamond exports to Malta. Arthur was a cultured man, but dealing with Outcasts was far from something he was used to. The communication was regarding docking on the station, apparently a nearby installation owned by Interspace had been causing them issues. Interspace, being a Liberty corporation, made things difficult for the professor. "Please stop causing issues for Bretonias Outcast friends" was about as stupid a thing as could be said to a Liberty person. The Outcast friendship with Bretonia was not officially known by Liberty, though many recognize the practicality of Bretonia in making friends with the drug pushing Maltese.
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