Dreadnaught

“Admiral Geary, we are in receipt of reports that indicate that you do not intend proceeding on your assigned mission for thirty standard days after assuming command. This mission is of the highest priority to the security of the Alliance. You are directed to move up your intended date of departure by a minimum of two weeks. You are to acknowledge receipt of this message and respond with your intended date of departure as soon as possible. Celu, out.”

Not even a polite and proper “to the honor of our ancestors” at the end of the message. And not a simple text message or even a video headshot to convey the short message, but a full-body image plainly intended to impress or intimidate. At one time it would have driven home to him the need to comply with an order whether he thought it wise or not. But in the last several months, he had done a lot of operating without the benefit of senior guidance, faced down plenty of opponents doubting his authority, and sent far too many men and women to their deaths on his orders during battle. His own perspective had shifted quite a bit, and actions aimed at pleasing his superiors even at risk to his subordinates had even less appeal than they had once had. Having confronted more than one collapsing hypernet gate, the image of an admiral standing before him held far less impact by comparison.

Geary paused the message to look Celu over. A very nicely cut uniform. Many decorations. Something about the image reminded him of the Syndic CEOs he had seen in their perfectly tailored suits. A certain cast to her expression, which, together with the tone she had used, made Geary willing to guess that Celu was the type of officer known as a “screamer” to subordinates, the sort of commander who thought that volume of voice and anger were the only two essential components of leadership.

Celu clearly intended to establish her relationship with Geary as commander and subordinate. He had no problem with that. It was only her due, and the chain of command had to be respected, but he didn’t like the way she was doing it. He never had liked headquarters, which even in his time too often had seemed to consider itself a self-licking ice-cream cone whose existence justified itself by existing and making demands on the warships it was supposed to be supporting. Apparently, that had worsened significantly during the long war as a gap had grown between headquarters staff and the operational officers.

So now Geary paused, thinking. A way existed to avoid moving up the date of the fleet’s departure despite that explicit order from Celu. Or a way had once existed, anyway. He called up fleet regulations, searching for the right phrase, and smiled when it popped up. Ultimate responsibility for the safety of ships and personnel, and for successful completion of assigned tasks and missions, rests with the commanding officer. It is the duty of the commander to take into account all potential factors when implementing orders.

Over a century ago, Geary and his fellow officers had called that the “you’re screwed” regulation. Obey an order when some of “all potential factors” might have made obedience unwise, and it was the fault of the commander in the field. Disobey an order when some of “all potential factors” made such disobedience wrong, and that was also the fault of the commander in the field. He shouldn’t have even wondered that a regulation designed to shield higher authority from fault would have been removed at any point.

But he could use it against higher authority. He could respond to these orders with a very detailed report laying out all of the potential factors that justified what he believed to be a necessary delay in beginning the mission. More repairs, more supplies to be brought in, crew members on leave who wouldn’t be reporting back early unless emergency recalls were sent out. Drafting such a justification would require his full attention for at least a day, and there would be no guarantee that anyone at headquarters would read beyond the executive summary at the beginning and no guarantee that headquarters would pay attention to any arguments contradicting its own chosen version of reality.

But he couldn’t lie, either. A Potemkin fleet might be all well and good when dealing with purely administrative matters, but lying about the fleet’s readiness status and when it was leaving on a mission would be criminally deceptive.