January 16, 1312 PE

  Seawind Cliff Executive House

  President Everard Vance squinted at the holo-monitor hovering just off the edge of his desk, angled so that only he could see its contents. Pale blue light reflected faintly off the glass surface of the desk and the scattered data chips resting upon it. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he moved the cursor through a dense list of files, tapping open one report after another, skimming just enough to determine whether it required immediate attention.

  Each time he closed one, another seemed to take its place.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose as a new batch of files finished downloading automatically, the system chiming softly to announce their arrival. His eyes drifted to the ever-growing stacks of physical data chips arranged in uneven columns along the desk’s edge—urgent matters mixed indiscriminately with things that someone had decided warranted the President’s personal attention.

  Frustration gnawed at him.

  Vance leaned back, then stood, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness that had settled in over hours of sitting. He crossed the office and stopped before the broad window overlooking the fjord.

  The view, at least, never failed to steady him.

  Below lay Acminden, the floating city—administrative heart of the Solar Federation. Its glass spires rose gracefully from massive buoyant platforms anchored deep beneath the water’s surface, reflecting the pale winter sun in shifting hues of silver and blue. Concentric rings of seawalls, domes, transit hubs, and habitation districts spread outward like ripples frozen in time, carefully engineered layers of civilization floating atop the cold, dark water of the fjord.

  Farther inland, where the floating districts ended, the fjord narrowed—and there stood the older city.

  Centuries old. Scarred, rebuilt, scarred again.

  Once, its name had been something else. Something lost in the fires of the Continental Wars, along with entire archives of ante-Expansion history. Now it was called Ny ánslo, a name chosen deliberately plain, deliberately forgettable. One of the few cities to survive the Continental Wars with most of its population and infrastructure intact—at least relative to the rest of Earth.

  Vance lingered on the sight longer than he should have.

  Then duty reclaimed him.

  He turned back toward his desk—and that was when he noticed it.

  A single data chip lay apart from the others, its casing marked with bold red glyphs.

  HIGHLY IMPORTANT

  It hadn’t been there long. The depositer slot beneath the desk hummed faintly, still warm from recent use.

  Vance frowned, picked up the chip, and slotted it into one of the desk’s ports. The transfer completed almost instantly. A document opened unbidden, its header stark and unmistakable.

  | ONI URGENT REPORT | EPSILON CLEARANCE |

  Office of Naval Intelligence — Presidential Brief

  Subject: People’s Republic of Novayarsk — Suspicious Military Movements

  1. Multiple hyperspace signatures detected entering and exiting the Novaya System.

  2. Novayarski dreadnought divisions conducting large-scale fleet exercises near the frontier.

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  3. Trajan Pact joint naval exercises at all-time operational intensity.

  4. Human intelligence sources indicate possible internal disagreement between PRN President and Cabinet.

  5. PRN dreadnought construction tempo accelerating beyond projected capacity.

  6. PRN mobilizing reserve forces and stockpiling strategic resources and ammunition.

  Vance didn’t read past the first few lines.

  He didn’t need to.

  “Well,” he muttered quietly, “that’s… interesting.”

  It did absolutely nothing to help his workload.

  With a resigned sigh, he flagged the report as critical and slid it into a protected directory, then returned to the rest of his queue. He moved quickly now, scanning for anything else that might demand immediate action.

  Most of it was noise.

  Incident reports from Duma, which everyone officially acknowledged as lawless and unofficially agreed was not worth the diplomatic effort of caring about. Budget proposals. Committee reviews. Parliamentary squabbles disguised as policy recommendations.

  Nothing else screamed war.

  That was something, at least.

  Vance straightened, tapped a command, and opened a secure channel to the Octagon.

  The comm system chimed once, glowed green, and confirmed encryption. A moment later, a hologram flickered to life above the desk.

  Fleet Admiral Alexander Hawthorne, Chief of Naval Operations, appeared mid-review of his own paperwork. His desk—visible behind him—was buried under data chips in quantities disturbingly similar to Vance’s.

  Hawthorne looked up, met the President’s gaze, and inclined his head.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President,” he said. “Let me guess—this is about the ONI file that just landed in your inbox.”

  “Indeed,” Vance replied dryly. “The information was… distressing, to say the least.” He gestured toward the cluttered desk. “As if I needed more stress without a looming war.”

  He paused, then added, “And before you say it—I don’t think I can secure any additional funding. Not after I spent every ounce of political capital I had getting the defense budget tripled.”

  Hawthorne waved that aside.

  “This isn’t about funding, sir. And frankly, that ONI report is probably already outdated.” He grimaced faintly. “God knows how long it took FIS assets to smuggle that intelligence out.”

  Vance stiffened slightly.

  “I believe war is imminent,” Hawthorne continued. “Days, not weeks.”

  Silence hung between them.

  “It all lines up,” Hawthorne said. “Their economy looks stable on the surface, but it’s degrading underneath. Persistent deficits. Rising internal unrest. Liberation fronts escalating attacks on infrastructure and senior officials. An external enemy would unify their populace overnight.”

  He leaned closer to the projection.

  “And they believe—rightly or wrongly—that they have the firepower to pull it off and buy themselves breathing room.”

  Vance rubbed his forehead.

  “Alright,” he said finally. “If war is imminent… what can the Navy actually field right now? And what are our chances?”

  Hawthorne didn’t hesitate.

  “We currently have approximately fourteen hundred third-rates in active service. Another six hundred are in refit or scheduled maintenance.” He spoke evenly, professionally. “On a ton-for-ton basis, our vessels enjoy roughly a thirty percent performance advantage thanks to superior systems integration and weapons efficiency.”

  The admiral allowed himself a brief smile.

  "Grav-shields. COGTRALS. Adaptive fire-control architectures. All of it tested extensively against Duman pirate fleets. Credit where it’s due—those R&D programs your predecessor authorized were… inspired.”

  Vance nodded.

  “She was a capable leader,” he said quietly. “Now—back to the unpleasant part.”

  Hawthorne’s expression hardened.

  “Intelligence suggests we have a reasonable chance—if we can outlast them. However, they still possess more than twice our total tonnage. A prolonged engagement could go either way. There is a nontrivial chance they simply overwhelm us.”

  Vance exhaled.

  “Put the fleet on high alert,” he ordered. “I’ll speak with Parliament. The Senate is solid, but the Assembly's majority is razor-thin.”

  He ended the connection and stood in silence, staring once more at the city beyond the window.

  War was coming.

  ■■■■■

  “Lieutenant,” Admiral Winston McVagen asked from the command chair, “time until arrival?”

  “Approximately one day, sir,” the navigation officer replied. “We’re approaching the Delta Barrier. Additional thrust should shave several hours off transit.”

  “Good,” McVagen said. He stared at the tactical display, jaw set. “I wonder if the politicians will even bother with a declaration of war.”

  No one answered.

  “We’ve got surprise—for now,” he continued. “But the Sollies have better equipment. Better missiles. Better point defense.” He snorted. “Sure, the new Surozov class first-rates boast more energy batteries than their Solly counterparts…”

  He shook his head.

  “…but their missiles are going to chew us apart if this turns into a straight brawl.”

  The lieutenant hesitated, then spoke softly.

  “We’ll see, Admiral.”

  McVagen didn’t reply.

  Stars stretched into lines as the fleet pushed harder toward its destination—and toward a war no one on that bridge truly believed would be short, or victorious.