A non-descript Merchant Navy Clydesdale exited the trade-lane coming from Freeport 1, one among many. The security cordon around Aland however halted it and challenged them. The pilot nonchalantly mentioned that they now challenge all contacts, allied or neutral. The first warning was what everyone had. The orders in place stated that the second warning should not be a warning, but a statement. Aland is off-limits to those without permission. Meallan nodded as a patrol appeared at their side, weapons trailing the Percheron.
"The war got all of you jumpy, right?"
Meallan asked as the pilot started to send the permission codes, identification, orders and destination.
"After Southie and the Hessians tallywacking Gwent, guv'na, you can bet the Army boys are on alert. If them Norfolk devils didn't managed to get Aland, the front would be in Cambridge by now. Ah, there it is."
The pilot pointed at the big space station in front of it and after been accepted, the patrol resumed its position, orbiting around a small sector nearby. Pushing the engines to full, the Clydesdale closed the distance quickly enough, pushing through the ever increasing traffic around, but giving enough time for Meallan to notice a large cordoned off area to the right of the shipyard. Tapping on the pilot shoulder he nodded at the field.
"Spoils of war, for what I've heard. Hessian, IMG, even some Crayter steel is hanging in there and being used to repair our fleets. One Libertonian fool got too close and went off in a puff of smoke. Vaporized. More to the heap, I guess."
He shrugged and stopped nearby the docking area. Pushing its codes, he awaited for his turn. The shipyard was seeing a lot of traffic, be it by transports of goods as well military craft. The outer yards were full and working at 100%, for what Meallan could check from his position. The reply came soon after, with the pilot engaging the automatic docking procedures and taking his hand of the controls. The bay door opened and the bay swallowed the tiny Clydesdale whole, like was a beast of old eating a lonely ship at sea. Several bays shone their light through the access space and they were bustling with activity. Meallan was used to shipyards, but not on this scale. This was a monumental achievement, an engineering triumph, something Bretonia learned when it built Southampton and applied the knowledge to the former civilian shipyard. The pilot noticed Meallan's eyes wide open and chuckled, bringing Meallan to attention. Opening his arms, encompassing as much of the view as he could, he said.
"Welcome to Aland, guv'na. The engine that's keeping us running in this bloody war."
Rucksack in hand, Meallan stood nearby the now cooling Clydesdale. A sergeant quickly arrived and saluted. Meallan saluted back, lazily. Looking at the uniformed man, Meallan squinted slightly, remembering his face from Southampton.
"You're my welcoming committee again?"
The sergeant nodded, seriously and handed over a data-pad, and retrieved Meallan's rucksack. Inviting him to walk towards the bay access doors, Meallan started to read the data-pad.
"Terribly sorry for the quick welcome, but we are extremely busy. Only now the shipyard is 100% repaired, and all the manufacturing plants are running at full. The Commodore sent these orders down the line, and you have a meeting with the shipyard Engineer Board in twenty minutes."
Meallan stopped, reading what the data-pad was displaying, his face slightly in shock and looked at the sergeant.
"Captain rank?"
The sergeant ushered him forward, to continue their walk and started to speak, saluting to the guards.
"The shipyard is controlled by BMM, a Crown owned civilian company. However, with the war-time emergency powers, the Armed Forces are the ones calling the shots, as the shipyard is considered to be vital. So, to speed your way and work in here, a non-combat rank was attributed to you, Captain. You will find your uniform in your quarters, where we are heading now."
Passing his hand in front of a bio-metric reader, he looked up at a camera, and the doors to the lift opened fully. Two guards awaited within and checked the sergeant orders and credentials. Meallan, continuing to read the data-pad, kept his shell-shocked face. The lift halted, and not five minutes later, they entered what appeared to be a bare bones workshop with a small personal quarters room. Dropping his rucksack at the entrance, the sergeant pointed at the side-room.
"Your uniform is there, Captain. I will be waiting outside to take you to the meeting."
With a sharp salute, he left the workshop. As their doors closed, Meallan sighed and walked towards the window, full view of the yards. The data-pad was dropped onto a nearby table, schematics and logs of the shipyard being displayed.
"Great."
Was all he muttered as he walked towards his room.
Sparks flew over the bay floor as another armor plating hull unit was being fixed onto the mobile coupling that would soon be attached to the London Interdictor outside. Meallan stood there, reading a data-pad and eating an apple. In the middle of all that racket, he managed to hear steps behind him and he turned back, not even breaking eye contact with what he was reading. Two BAF officers stopped and quickly saluted.
"Captain Dagon? We are from the Toys and Games."
Meallan sighed and rolled his eyes ever so slightly, before looking at them.
"What now?"
The Lieutenant shifted his feet, appearing to be somewhat taken back by his not so courteous question. Taking a good look at them, they were not that young. Probably science majors from Cambridge pushed into service, the kind he didn't liked so much. Junkrats rated low in his chart, but theoretic mechanics rated even lower.
"We received orders from the Board to check on the.."
The other Lieutenant looked around as if watching if someone was looking.
"Miraborg Project."
Obviously bored, Meallan's eyebrow rose and dropped in a second and he started to finish his apple. Throwing the data-pad at the other Lieutenant, he started walking and silently signaled them to follow him, while he kept biting the apple with more speed, akin to finish it. Standing near an access corridor, he saluted at the armed guards that double checked their credentials. As they kept on walking through the busy corridors, Meallan started to talk.
"Ain't an easy dance with those ladies."
Both men looked at each other in confusion as their steps continued forward, like lemmings following their path to destiny.
"Excuse me?"
Meallan smirked at himself, and continued to turn in the mess that were the corridors that served Aland, passing by techs, workers and the like.
"The ladies. Miraborg. They were shot to hell and back."
He started to blurp out a great deal of technicalities coupled with a lot of colloquialisms as they kept their long walk. A few minutes later, they exited an elevator that opened into a room with a view of the secondary hidden support yard. Both the Vidar, nicknamed Mira, and the gunboat, named Borg, were there, being serviced by the automated yard arms as well a small group of techs that looked like ants at that distance.
"First assessment on the big lady was wrong. The power-core wasn't ruptured. Its primary energy coils got blown up, and it looked like a ruptured power-core. We made new ones, but they aren't as kosher as I want them to be. Also, its an old core. Readings say it has one to two years of usage before it goes night night. I adjusted the output to give it more lifetime, but that means it won't be dealing the kind of damage it used to. Dunno if the original owners kept it running hot, but that ain't the best way to run scrap if you don't have that many goods to replace it."
One of the Lieutenants started to write onto his personal data-pad, and took pictures of the cruiser. Meallan kept walking alongside the window, remembering the reconstruction details.
"Structure was looking like it was hit by another cruiser head on. We had to remake them, and we managed to squeeze a couple of reinforcements in the top and port sections of it. Plating is being redone, with our proprietary materials, and all sectors are being tested out now. We placed a new shield block in the aft and the rest is solid green. Give her some sticks to shoot and she's ready to go in a couple of days. We installed and adapted our core systems and after ironing some kinks out, she'll hit true."
Pointing at the gunboat, that was not being serviced, yet appeared to have no plating on.
"That one is a piece of work. Not only its strut was ready to go to the waste bin, the whole ablative plating was old as hell. New ones are being machined, but it will add more mass to it. Strut was redone from scratch, as good as we could do. Engines.. Well."
He turned back at the Lieutenants, and leaned against the glass window.
"I managed to.. uh. Adapt a new design. Slightly less heavy, to counter the ablative issue, but they are still under production and it will need testing. A lot of testing. Grids are good though, green for green. Nothing on the systems. They weren't hard-locked, since the buggers didn't had time to, but they seem more ancient than the plating. I'm leaning towards a complete replacement."
One of the lieutenants nodded, while the other jot down what Meallan was saying.
"All in all, Mira's ready to go. Borg needs more love. A lot more love."