Against the Tide

Chapter Nine

The duke worked his way around the room, informally chatting with at least the senior officer and senior NCO of each of the teams that directly supported him. As he did Herzer came to realize that he was subtly drawing them out. Not only learning their names but getting a feel for their capabilities. All of them were, naturally, nervous, facing the boss who had so abruptly replaced Admiral Draskovich. With the destruction of the headquarters all of them were facing problems and Herzer realized that the duke, while appearing on the surface to simply be chatting, was learning who in the headquarters could face a challenge and who couldn’t. Some people could take a break in routine and others could not. Both types were useful to the military, which had more than its share of boring jobs. But the most useful, by and large, were those who could respond to chaos and bring order from it. Unfortunately, the headquarters seemed to be severely lacking in the latter.

Operations, especially, seemed to be running around like headless chickens. They had multiple messages piling up giving locations of ships and in many cases requests for reinforcement. Edmund leafed through the messages, passing them on to Herzer as he was done.

Herzer, in turn, was surprised at the… tone of many of the messages. Most of the remaining carrier captains, as well as the captains of the ballista frigates that were attached to them, were simply asking what they should do. Not where they should go or where they should rendezvous, but what they should do about the battle damage on their ships. There were also requests for resupply, naturally, but Herzer had to wonder what they were doing sitting on the desk of the operations section. They should have been sent directly to G-4, the department in charge of logistics. There the requests would be assembled and collated so that if a resupply force could be put to sea, it would be loaded for what they needed.

After reading the messages and shaking hands with the harried captain who was trying to get some order in his section, Edmund strolled over to the logistics section where a very young female lieutenant was copying items off of one list and filling in another.

“How’s it going, Lieutenant?” the admiral said.

The young woman had been so absorbed in her task that she hadn’t even noticed the approach of the new boss.

“Not very damned good.” She sighed, not looking up. “Whatever it is, I don’t have it.”

“What a perfect answer from a supply person,” Edmund chuckled.

She looked up then and leapt to her feet, ashen.

“Sorry, sir,” she stammered, “it’s just that…”

“I understand,” Edmund replied. “Everyone wants something and they want it right now. The question is, are we going to be able to get it?”

“So far, so good, sir,” she replied. “What I was doing was taking the requests from the fleet and compiling ship packets, sir.” She glanced down at the lists and seemed to drift off for a moment.

“Betraying my total ignorance,” Edmund said after a moment. “What is a ship packet?”

“Sorry, sir,” the lieutenant said, shaking her head. “When we send resupply ships out, some of the stuff that’s requested is in bulk. Beans and ketchup for the wyverns, salt beef and pork. But some of the stuff is specific. For example the Henry Tachos needs a new set of steering rigging; the fire they had burned up most of the rear of the ship. We try, where possible, to assemble the specific needs for the ships in one place on the resupply ships and then load it according to the order in which the ships are going to be supplied.”

“And you are…?”

“Lieutenant Dierdre Miuki, sir,” the young woman replied.

“Does that need to be done in the headquarters, Lieutenant Miuki?” Edmund asked. “I’d think that would be passed on to a lower section to be assembled?”

“We sort of triage it here, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Then it gets gone over again by the G-4 staff.”

“I notice that while you were concentrating, you’re not terribly busy, Lieutenant… Miuki, was it?”

“Yes, sir, Miuki,” she replied. “I’m waiting on the rest of the signals from the fleet, sir.”

“Which are over at operations.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?” the admiral inquired, mildly.

“They… go through ops first, sir,” the officer said, swallowing.

“Van Kr…” Edmund said then shook his head. “No… Destrang.”

“Sir?”

“Go over to operations. On my authority, pore through those messages. Pull out any that only pertain to material needs and move them over here. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign said languidly, then strolled back over to ops.

“You’ll have your messages shortly, Lieutenant,” the admiral said. “But all I want you to do is sort out who wants what and send it on. Let someone in the G-4 section make up the ship packets or whatever. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant Miuki.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Herzer and the ensigns followed the admiral to the far side of the room where he stood looking at the map for a long time, then turned around shaking his head.

“No plan survives contact with the enemy, Herzer.”

“No sir,” Herzer said, smiling faintly. “That’s why they call them the enemy, sir.”

Megan smiled as Paul rolled off of her and she rearranged her clothing as she cleaned up.

When she had first arrived in the harem the “standard” clothing was light silk robes that were presupplied. Some of the girls made clothing of their own; Mirta Krupansky for example was an accomplished seamstress. The simple rule, strictly enforced by Christel, was that the clothing had to be “nice to look at” by which she meant “skimpy.”

Megan had used a crisis with Paul, a time when he nearly killed himself from neglect, to effect several changes. One of them was to get Mirta to do more classes on sewing. The woman was clearly older than she looked or acted and had spent her time studiously avoiding any attention in the harem. Megan more or less forced her to take a more proactive role and over time all of the girls, even Megan, became competent at making “appropriate” outfits.

But another change that Megan effected was the robes. They had struck her from the beginning as being silly. And not having panties or bras was just idiocy. So, soon after the “crisis,” she had convinced Christel to “outsource” for standard clothing that, while alluring, was a bit more practical. Among other things, working out in the robes was a pain and doing so stark naked was a specific pain; Paul was eclectic in his taste in women, with the exception of breasts.

The “standard” clothing in the harem, now, was a short midriff top, front-opening bra, either short skirt or very short shorts and panties. They arrived in various sizes and then the girls “fitted” them a bit more closely. Of course, when Paul came to visit those came off and a variety of “special” outfits went on.

Megan’s “special” outfits tended to look not much different from the day-to-day ones, just in more vivid colors and richer fabrics. She was currently wearing a short, split, hip-hugging skirt and a very brief halter top, both in a rich, rippling red material.

She picked up her ripped panties and shook her head.

“You’ve been away too long again, Paul,” she said.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” the council member replied. He looked much better than during the crisis. The girls had managed to convince him that starving himself wasn’t good for him or them. And he had tended to spend more time in the harem afterwards; most of his work was done via sentient avatars which had to be “gathered” and resent on an almost daily basis. They were, for all practical purposes, “him” but as time went by their experiences tended to make the personalities fragment away from the base. Gathering them always was somewhat traumatic as he dealt with the various problems that arose in brutal bursts.

But that meant that he could do it just about anywhere and for several months after the crisis he had tended to do the “reintegration” in the harem, usually while Megan or Christel watched over him.

The combination of the girls stuffing him and coming out of his reintegration trance with a pretty female snuggled up against him had done wonders for his psyche. Which was why Megan found it odd that he had been gone for nearly a month. Presumably, given his actions, celibate.

“I liked staying here,” Paul said as he slipped on his pants and shirt. “But I found that I was really starting to lose my focus. I needed to get out among the people and experience their lives again. It’s… getting better. But the life they live is still brutal and horrible.”

“You don’t get that from your avatars?” Megan asked.

“Not the same,” Paul admitted. “They don’t experience the life the way that I do. I feel I need that if I’m going to do the best job that I can for the people, given the current conditions.”

“You’re a very good man, Paul,” Megan said, slipping up to him and cradling him in her arms. “But that’s one of the reasons we like to have you here. Another, selfish, reason I like it is I haven’t had any news in a month. What’s going on?”

“Good news and bad,” Paul admitted. “The Tauranian forces of that bitch Ishtar defeated Lupe’s forces and are just about to close in on the Alam reactor site.”

“Well, big deal.” Megan shrugged, carefully ensuring that the shrug transmitted through the breasts she had pushed into his side. “There’s a force-field up around the reactor, right? They can’t capture it through that.”

“Force majeure,” Paul sighed. “If they take the territory, Mother will transfer the control of the shield to them. They ‘own’ it according to her protocols. It’s the same weakness we’re trying to exploit all over, so I can’t exactly complain.”

“That’s insane,” Megan said, honestly.

“Mother doesn’t take sides,” Paul pointed out. “She’ll maintain our personal protection fields, but she’s not going to defend the reactor for us. We’ve built up a fortress around it, but they’re sure to take that in time. Especially since it can’t be close, given the power they’re pouring on its shields. It’s really just a curtain wall. Lupe has pulled a good bit of the army they defeated inside the walls, but even if they don’t attack they can just starve them out. And then they’ll have the reactor and there goes an eighth of our power. I’ve instructed them to destroy the reactor rather than have it fall into Ishtar’s hands, but if we lose that much power, things are going to be tough.”

“So what’s the good news?” Megan asked, filing that point away.

“Chansa’s plan worked,” Paul said, brightening up. “He sent out his combat fleet and ravaged the UFS fleet good and hard. They lost a lot of their carriers and their wyverns aren’t getting fed so they’re on their last legs. But he couldn’t completely destroy them because of a storm. He also took out their main shipyard and their headquarters. The next plan is to spoof them into moving out of position and send out the invasion fleet. It looks like the invasion is on.”

“Good news,” Megan said, thinking about the plans she already knew. “If you can get to the Pizurg power plant in time, you might be able to make up the gain in power.”

“Or, even if they destroy it, we’ll at least not be so much in the hole,” Paul said, nodding. “If we can get an invasion force to take and hold some of the territory in Norau, we can set up portals and not, strictly, need the sea-lanes anymore. Once we own territory on the coast, territory we can demonstrate is resuppliable, Sheida can’t block our teleports. We can pour forces through the portals.”

“If.”

“If,” Paul smiled. “The target is Balmoran. There are good piers there and a good natural harbor. We can move up the Sussain River and supply that way. And Celine has ‘Change’ personnel standing by.” He shrugged and grimaced at the thought. “The people of Norau don’t strictly need Change; they’ve demonstrated that they can survive in this world. But Change adds to our army.” He grimaced again and shrugged. “And if we can just win we can Change them back. As they are they are not just abominations but evil abominations.”

“I know you hate Change,” Megan said, “and the Changes that have had to be made.”

“Yes, I do,” Paul sighed. “But it’s for the best, really. The life that people have to live these days… If that bitch Sheida had just…”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be here for relaxation,” Megan said.

“I’m supposed to be here to make babies,” Paul replied, frowning. “Something that isn’t happening enough. I suppose because I’m not here enough.”

“Then stay here more,” Megan replied, logically. “There were more pregnancies when you were around more often.” Karie, Velva and Golda had all gotten pregnant during the time period.

“You didn’t get pregnant,” Paul pointed out, frowning. “I’ve scanned you. I know you’re fertile…”

“Paul?” Megan said, smiling thinly. “If you’re thinking of hurrying things along somehow, let me ask you a question. Do you really want me in the confinement quarters for nine months? Then gone for two years with my newborn?”

Paul frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Okay, I didn’t think so. So maybe we should just let nature take its course?” she asked, smiling.

“You… have a point,” Paul said, still frowning. “But you would make a great mother, I’m sure.”

“And I’m sure that in time I will,” she replied, rolling over on him. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Go ahead,” he said, leaning back.

“Why do you still have your clothes on?”

Megan looked at the vial for a moment and then tossed back the bitter brew, closing her eyes and wincing against the taste. When she had arrived in the harem, the only thing she knew about tansy was that it was dangerous to use and one of the few semieffective abortifacients available as an herb. She’d originally run across it as a poison, in fact, but the abortifacient properties had been stored in her sometimes overgenerous memory.

When she had first set up her “perfumery” she had ordered a large number of herbs, included among them, as a single line item, tansy. Paul had scanned the list on any number of occasions but had clearly never delved deeply into their properties; given the large number of herbs it would have been a mind-numbing exercise. It was one of the many things she hoped he never bothered to notice.

Over time she had experimented with it judiciously, slowly increasing the dosage until she began to feel unpleasant effects. Each time she was “with” Paul, she was careful to take the herbal infusion every few days for at least a week afterwards. So far, no pregnancy, which was fine by her.

She washed the bitter oils down with a glass of lemon water and picked up a few bottles of perfume for the girls.

Her effect was clear in the main gathering area of the harem. Where there had been bare stone walls and a few cushions thrown around a stone floor, there were now carpets, bright wall-hangings and low tables. There were even five cats, ranging from standard-sized tabbies up to a puma-sized “house lion.” The tables and pillows had been moved out of the way for the afternoon exercise program and the girls were well into a serious aerobics workout. The cats had had the sense to clear the area.

She was mostly exempt from the “mandatory” workouts since she tended to keep herself in shape. But she often joined in and after stretching a bit she took a place at the back of the group and started jogging with them.

As she did she scanned the girls, wondering what they would think if she ever managed to bring her plans to fruition. The harem was a boring place, but as safe and well-supplied as was possible post-Fall. When she killed Paul, all the safety and security would go away in that moment. Most of them had known enough of the post-Fall life to be frightened of leaving the harem. It was something that she kept in mind. Along with the fact that if any of them stayed, they were, effectively, doomed. She also worried about the women who had been taken away pregnant. She had no idea where the “confinement” quarters were. And any scenario that she envisioned, post-Paul, meant being on the very ragged edge of disaster. Timing would be everything. Trying to find the girls, to convince them to leave, might mean coming to blows with other council members. Not to mention that she wasn’t sure she could gain full control of Paul’s power immediately. Many of the programs that had been universally available pre-Fall had been locked under passwords.

There were thirteen women in the seraglio, including two new ones that Paul had “recovered” in the last year. There were seven, somewhere, either awaiting birth or with their children.

What she should do was take the women from the seraglio and run like hell.

But she didn’t know if she could do that.

“Shar,” Edmund said, taking the general’s hand as he slid off the dragon.

“Admiral Talbot,” Shar said then grinned. “Coming up in the world?”

“I think more like… sideways,” Edmund replied. “Joanna, you look like hell.”

The dragon did look exhausted but she grinned nonetheless.

“If memory serves, you owe me a couple of barbequed cows,” Joanna said.

Edmund gestured to the rear of a building where smoke could be seen ascending into the air.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there is fire, there is barbeque.”

“I’m outta here,” the dragon said, stretching her legs and then stumping towards the fire.

“I wish you could have brought Evan,” Talbot said, gesturing towards the nearby temporary headquarters.

“Joanna was on the ragged edge of ability.” Shar shrugged. “Evan’s not that big of a guy, but I didn’t even bring a change of clothes. But I’ve brought some ideas of his we need to talk about.”

“The clothes we can get fixed,” the duke said, looking at Van Krief.

“Clothes for the general,” Van Krief said, noting it in her book.

“Aides?” Shar asked with a grin. “Where’s Herzer?”

“Putting the fear of Edmund into some supply personnel.”

“Captain, we’re working on it,” the major said, looking over his desk at Herzer. “I realize that the admiral isn’t aware of all the logistical aspects of this base, but…”

“I think the admiral is well aware of the ‘logistical aspects’ of this base, Major,” Herzer replied, smiling. “Which is why you are going to draw the supplies requested and you are going to prepare, as ordered, for the arrival of the Fleet.”

“Captain, the admiral can order all he would like,” the major said, smiling faintly and leaning back in his chair. “But the materials he has requested are administered by Navy Logistics Command, not by the local fleet commander or by the base commander. They are for resupply of the Fleet and not for any frivolous ‘welcome home’ party your general seems to think is a good idea. Your general does not have the authority to order their release. Certainly not for a nonoperational function.”

“Are there sufficient excess supplies for what the general has ordered?” Herzer asked, calmly.

“Whether there are or not is beside the point,” the major said. “And don’t think that the ‘admiral’ can simply order me around. I don’t work for him, I work for Naval Logistics.”

“Is that your final answer?” Herzer asked, grinning.

“Yes, it is,” the major frowned.

“Okay, what we have here is a clear case of separation of operational and logistic function,” Herzer said, slipping into instructor mode. “There have been repeated instances in historical record where this has occurred, always to the detriment of the operational side. Given that fact, you leave me no recourse but to ensure you spend the rest of your military career as a stevedore on the docks.”

“You don’t have the authority for that,” the major smiled, thinly. “So you might as well take your threats out of my office.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Herzer replied, laying a sheet of paper on the table. “This is my authority, signed by Admiral Houser, releasing all stores in this vicinity, and all logistics personnel, to the control of the base commander. And item one in my report is that you’re a shit for brains that can’t get his lard butt out of his office.”

“Let me see that,” the major said, snatching up the paper.

“I’ll note that this is a copy of the original. The distribution list on the original included your office. So you’re clearly such a lard ass you didn’t even bother to read your mail. Now get your ass up and get out of the chair.”

“I don’t have to take that from you, Captain,” the major snarled, throwing the sheet of paper on the desk and pointing to his collar. “I’m a major. You’re a captain. And you don’t talk to me that way!”

“I’m a captain sent by your commander passing on an order that you failed to obey,” Herzer said, still smiling with a certain amount of strain. “I think you’d better wonder how many more minutes you’re going to be a major. Or, you know, you could get your ass in gear and start preparing for the arrival of the Fleet. Your choice.”

“We’ll see about this,” the major said. “There are channels for the ‘admiral’ to forward a request such as that. And the use of that material for nonoperational purposes is still against regulations. You can tell the ‘admiral’ that for me. Now get out of my office, Captain. You can consider yourself on report for insubordination.”

“What? Again?” Herzer said. “Have a nice day.”

Herzer strolled out of the office and through the headquarters beyond. Despite the fact that the fleet was limping back to port, just about out of rations and with heavy damage, the logistics headquarters for the base was not what he would call a sea of activity. In fact the well-manned office was filled mostly with clerks who were clearly trying to figure out something to do. Each of them had a desk, which was more than could be said for the temporary headquarters, and each of them had a pile of paperwork that they were supposedly working on. But the vast majority were chatting or obviously working so slowly they were just trying to pass the time.

Destrang fell into step with him as he walked through the outer office and into the sunshine beyond. Herzer took a deep breath and shook his head.

“What do you think?” he asked, looking towards the warehouses along the shore-front.

“Well, everybody is running around like chickens with their heads cut off over at headquarters,” Destrang said, rubbing his chin. “Sure doesn’t look like it’s filtered down, though.”

“True,” Herzer replied, stepping off towards the temporary fleet headquarters. “I can’t think but that I might have handled that better.”

Edmund had actually moved the “war-room” out of the headquarters and into tents set up on a nearby field. His ostensible reason for this was that way the dragons could participate in discussions. Herzer knew it was widely suspected that the new admiral was just trying to put the Navy in its place. And he also knew that there was more than a gram of truth to the suspicion.

The area had been roped off and marines were stationed around it to prevent unauthorized entry. They knew better than to try to stop the general’s aides and as Herzer walked through the entrance he nodded at the sergeant on duty.

“Wonderful day, eh?” Herzer said, smiling.

“Lovely, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Can’t wait for it to rain, frankly.”

In the two days since the headquarters destruction Herzer had found time to work out with the marines. He found them to be woefully undertrained by Blood Lord standards, but he knew that was a high standard. The marines, however, had developed a reputation for ability and Herzer had to wonder if it was anything but a reputation. They made much of being able to stake out bars, but with either boarding pikes or short swords even Van Krief had been able to take them with laughable ease. It was something in the back of his mind to discuss with Edmund. If there was ever time.

“How’d it go?” Edmund asked as he entered the tent reserved for the commander.

“I’m on report for insubordination,” Herzer admitted. “Something about calling a major a lard ass.”

“Well, was he? And do we have a party for the troops laid on?”

“Sailors,” Herzer corrected. “No we don’t and yes he was. Those materials are for the supply of the Fleet, not for a damned party.”

“That’s what he thinks,” Edmund replied. “You showed him the letter? Hadn’t he received a copy?”

“I don’t know if he had or not,” Herzer said, shrugging. “But when I gave him the copy he still felt constrained to point out that it was against regulations to use the materials in that manner. He also pointed out that there were ‘proper channels’ for such a ‘request.’ ”

“Oh, he did did he?” Edmund asked. “I’ve sent down that request twice through the G-4. I think it’s time for the G-4 and me to have a little chat.” Edmund leaned back and tugged at his beard for a moment, then shook his head. “No, it’s not, come to think of it. What was that major’s name?”

“Spearman.”

Edmund reached into his desk and rummaged until he came up with a manning chart.

“Wait a second,” Edmund said, pulling out a fountain pen and writing rapidly, consulting the manning chart from time to time. He handed the paper to Herzer and gestured to the main tent. “Go have a copy made of that, then carry the copy over to the G-4. Just hand it to him and leave.”

“Righto,” Herzer said, glancing at the paper and shaking his head. “Who is Colonel Trahn?”

“According to my manning chart he’s now my G-4,” Edmund said, looking back down at his desk which was just about covered in paper. “Let’s hope he has the sense not to be passive aggressive with me like his former boss.”

As Herzer exited the tent he nodded at the major who was entering. The man was tall and spare, clean shaven and with a very short haircut. It took him a moment to remember where he had seen him before.

“Major.” Herzer nodded.

“Captain Herzer,” Joel Travante said. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

“Congratulations on yours… sir,” Herzer said, his brow furrowing.

“It’s a lot easier to move around a military base in uniform,” Joel said, then frowned. “I’d like to pick your brain sometime, Captain.”

“About?” Herzer asked.

“In a more private venue,” Joel grinned. “Call it… ground combat issues.”

“Any time,” Herzer replied. “If I’m not running errands for the general.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Joel replied. “Good day.”

“Good day to you,” Herzer nodded as the man entered the tent.

“Who was that?” Destrang asked as they headed for the main tent.

“I’m not sure I should say,” Herzer answered then shrugged. “He’s a spook.”

“A what?”

“An intel officer. I don’t know what he’s doing here.”