Domus Publica
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A Visit from the Admiral
The admiral’s barge descended with the easy grace that was the telltale sign of an experienced pilot. That was to be
expected, really; like many jobs in a spaceborne navy, the coxswain’s job remained blissfully unaffected by circumstance;
through war and peace, through plenty and privation, there were always people needing to go ashore or come aboard, and it
was the coxswain’s job to make that happen. Most coxswains were old hands, and could guide their craft with unerring
precision.
Vice Admiral (Select) L. N. Jerjerrod watched the barge touch down on the launchpad with ambivalence. He stood at ease
about a dozen meters or so from the LZ, flanked by a pair of masters at arms, his flag lieutenant a discreet distance behind,
doing whatever it is her kind did while their bosses were busy with more important matters. He tugged the brim of his cloth
cap, a nervous habit from his days as a midshipman; his son – now a newly-minted Space Warfare Officer – complained
that it always made him seem to be in a hurry, waiting on someone else’s convenience. Great men never hurry, his son
would chide. Great men cause others to hurry.
Jerjerrod snorted at this thought, prompting one of the petty officers accompanying him to cast a wary look in his
direction. Easy for him to say, Jerjerrod thought to himself. SWOs think they know everything. I’d like to see him make
Terrinald Screed hurry.
The barge lowered its brow, and the subject of Jerjerrod’s thoughts made his appearance. He was a tall man, with dark skin
and vaguely impish features, although the cybernetic eyepatch he wore over his left socket was by far the most outstanding
feature of his physiognomy. He wore the standard Service Blues, with the regulation blue overcoat he so loved. He stepped
off the brow and immediately moved at a brisk pace toward Jerjerrod, trailing his flag lieutenant, his flag secretary, a
nondescript civilian, and yeomen like crumbs of a hastily eaten pastry.
“Admiral Screed – “ Jerjerrod began as soon as the man was within range of normal conversation.
“It can wait until we’re in a secure area,” Screed interrupted in a brusque tone. He gestured toward the fleet of staff
speeders waiting behind Jerjerrod’s flag lieutenant. “Have those been screened?”
“Of course, sir,” Jerjerrod said, blinking. That had been quite rude, even for Screed, never known for social niceties even in
the best of times. But then, the Chairman of the Supreme Defense Council didn’t need to stand on ceremony, did he? “This
entire installation is secure, Admiral.”
Screed’s reply consisted of a noncommittal grunt as he walked toward the staff speeder clearly designated for his use – it
clearly displayed the unmistakable symbol of Screed’s rank on the right front fender. Jerjerrod shrugged and hurried after
him. Young Lieutenant Jerjerrod may not have approved, but then, his tune would probably change once he had to wait on
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s chief deputy in the war on the enemies of the state.
“Now, ah, Admiral,” Jerjerrod began as he entered the passengers’ area of the staff speeder. Screed raised his hand,
indicating unambiguously that Jerjerrod was to remain silent, finally gesturing for him to speak only when the civilian
examined some instruments and then nodded the OK.
“You know Mr. Rahab, my staff attaché from SBI, I believe?” Screed said, his voice as nasal as ever. As an afterthought, he
added, “My congratulations, by the way, on being selected for vice admiral.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Jerjerrod said (How nice of you to have noticed, he thought to himself), licking his lips, and finally
preparing to deliver the welcoming speech he’d been rehearsing in his head for hours. “May I say, Admiral, what an
unexpected honor – “
“You may dispense with the pleasantries, Jerjerrod.” Screed leaned forward, jabbing a finger in Jerjerrod’s direction. “I’m
here to conduct a thorough inspection and put you back on schedule.”
Jerjerrod cleared his throat, still surprised that Screed had been so careless as to address him by surname alone, as though he
were some mere enlisted rating. “Back on schedule, sir? Please convey my assurances to the Supreme Chancellor – ”
“The President,” Screed hissed.
“ – that the Victory Project will be completed on time, as planned.” Jerjerrod finished, exhaling heavily and trying to control
his annoyance. This was getting to be intolerable; he was a Jerjerrod, not some wet-behind-the-ears junior officer on the
deck of some unnamed cruiser. His family’s name had been synonymous with faithful, distinguished service for over three
thousand years. Supreme Chancellor’s inner cabinet or no, he was entitled to more respect than this.
Screed made some gesture, the precise meaning of which Jerjerrod wasn’t sure, and leaned back into his leather seat. He had
apparently had his say for the time being, for he took up looking out the tinted window. Blasterproof, of course.
“The President does not share your optimism, Admiral,” Rahab said. He handed over a datapad, and tapped the screen. “In
particular, we are concerned about this proposal to redesign the entire power plant.”
Jerjerrod leaned forward; this was his project, and he wasn’t about to have some spook who commanded a desk telling him
how to run it. “It’s utterly necessary, you see,” he said, gesturing toward the figures on the datapad. “As it is, the power
plant cannot sustain the weapons and defensive systems and the engines at the same time. The strain is too much, and you
get a slow ship – relatively speaking. She’ll have a fairly low sublight speed, relative to other ships her size.”
“Other ships her size don’t have half her firepower,” Screed said suddenly. A longtime SWO, Screed was one of the most
experienced combat officers in the Republic. “I commanded ships this size for years. I know the class. You put any bloody
ship her size against one of these, and she’ll trash it. Destroy it. Any ship. I’ve seen the specs, Jerjerrod. I’ve seen the
projections, I’ve seen the trials. This ship doesn’t need speed, she’s not picket ship or a battlecruiser. That whole bloody
concept is bankrupt, anyway.”
“Admiral, the ship needs to be able to at least keep pace – “
“I’ve read the report,” Screed waved off the coming argument. “The Council is unanimous. Terminate the power plant
redesign and proceed to the next phase of the project. I want this ship in production ASAP, do you understand?”
Jerjerrod blinked in disbelief. “Sir, with all due respect, the Supreme Defense Council doesn’t have the authority to make
that decision. This project was approved by the Defense Procurement Subcommittee, they have the final say on
production.”
Screed shook his head. “You’re misinformed, Jerjerrod,” he said. “The Victory Project never went before the Subcommittee.
Check your documentation. This project was authorized by the Office of the President under Section 125 of the Emergency
Powers Supplements. And the President has approved our decision. You have your orders.”
Jerjerrod pursed his lips, and then responded the only way he could. “Aye aye, Admiral.”
“Now,” Screed continued. “I want to see the entire installation. Everything related to this project. I want to talk to your
department heads first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Rahab will be assuming responsibility for project security, effective
immediately.” The Chairman of the Supreme Defense Council eyed Jerjerrod and shook his head. “Don’t make this harder
than it has to be, Jerjerrod. You’re a good officer, the President can use you. Just don’t disappoint us. You have a son, don’
t you?”
Jerjerrod nodded. “Yes, Admiral. Lieutenant Jerjerrod is serving on board an Acclamator, over in I Sector.”
“If he’s like you, he’ll do fine,” Screed said, seeming almost conciliatory. “I just hope running behind on important projects
doesn’t run in your family.”
expected, really; like many jobs in a spaceborne navy, the coxswain’s job remained blissfully unaffected by circumstance;
through war and peace, through plenty and privation, there were always people needing to go ashore or come aboard, and it
was the coxswain’s job to make that happen. Most coxswains were old hands, and could guide their craft with unerring
precision.
Vice Admiral (Select) L. N. Jerjerrod watched the barge touch down on the launchpad with ambivalence. He stood at ease
about a dozen meters or so from the LZ, flanked by a pair of masters at arms, his flag lieutenant a discreet distance behind,
doing whatever it is her kind did while their bosses were busy with more important matters. He tugged the brim of his cloth
cap, a nervous habit from his days as a midshipman; his son – now a newly-minted Space Warfare Officer – complained
that it always made him seem to be in a hurry, waiting on someone else’s convenience. Great men never hurry, his son
would chide. Great men cause others to hurry.
Jerjerrod snorted at this thought, prompting one of the petty officers accompanying him to cast a wary look in his
direction. Easy for him to say, Jerjerrod thought to himself. SWOs think they know everything. I’d like to see him make
Terrinald Screed hurry.
The barge lowered its brow, and the subject of Jerjerrod’s thoughts made his appearance. He was a tall man, with dark skin
and vaguely impish features, although the cybernetic eyepatch he wore over his left socket was by far the most outstanding
feature of his physiognomy. He wore the standard Service Blues, with the regulation blue overcoat he so loved. He stepped
off the brow and immediately moved at a brisk pace toward Jerjerrod, trailing his flag lieutenant, his flag secretary, a
nondescript civilian, and yeomen like crumbs of a hastily eaten pastry.
“Admiral Screed – “ Jerjerrod began as soon as the man was within range of normal conversation.
“It can wait until we’re in a secure area,” Screed interrupted in a brusque tone. He gestured toward the fleet of staff
speeders waiting behind Jerjerrod’s flag lieutenant. “Have those been screened?”
“Of course, sir,” Jerjerrod said, blinking. That had been quite rude, even for Screed, never known for social niceties even in
the best of times. But then, the Chairman of the Supreme Defense Council didn’t need to stand on ceremony, did he? “This
entire installation is secure, Admiral.”
Screed’s reply consisted of a noncommittal grunt as he walked toward the staff speeder clearly designated for his use – it
clearly displayed the unmistakable symbol of Screed’s rank on the right front fender. Jerjerrod shrugged and hurried after
him. Young Lieutenant Jerjerrod may not have approved, but then, his tune would probably change once he had to wait on
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s chief deputy in the war on the enemies of the state.
“Now, ah, Admiral,” Jerjerrod began as he entered the passengers’ area of the staff speeder. Screed raised his hand,
indicating unambiguously that Jerjerrod was to remain silent, finally gesturing for him to speak only when the civilian
examined some instruments and then nodded the OK.
“You know Mr. Rahab, my staff attaché from SBI, I believe?” Screed said, his voice as nasal as ever. As an afterthought, he
added, “My congratulations, by the way, on being selected for vice admiral.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Jerjerrod said (How nice of you to have noticed, he thought to himself), licking his lips, and finally
preparing to deliver the welcoming speech he’d been rehearsing in his head for hours. “May I say, Admiral, what an
unexpected honor – “
“You may dispense with the pleasantries, Jerjerrod.” Screed leaned forward, jabbing a finger in Jerjerrod’s direction. “I’m
here to conduct a thorough inspection and put you back on schedule.”
Jerjerrod cleared his throat, still surprised that Screed had been so careless as to address him by surname alone, as though he
were some mere enlisted rating. “Back on schedule, sir? Please convey my assurances to the Supreme Chancellor – ”
“The President,” Screed hissed.
“ – that the Victory Project will be completed on time, as planned.” Jerjerrod finished, exhaling heavily and trying to control
his annoyance. This was getting to be intolerable; he was a Jerjerrod, not some wet-behind-the-ears junior officer on the
deck of some unnamed cruiser. His family’s name had been synonymous with faithful, distinguished service for over three
thousand years. Supreme Chancellor’s inner cabinet or no, he was entitled to more respect than this.
Screed made some gesture, the precise meaning of which Jerjerrod wasn’t sure, and leaned back into his leather seat. He had
apparently had his say for the time being, for he took up looking out the tinted window. Blasterproof, of course.
“The President does not share your optimism, Admiral,” Rahab said. He handed over a datapad, and tapped the screen. “In
particular, we are concerned about this proposal to redesign the entire power plant.”
Jerjerrod leaned forward; this was his project, and he wasn’t about to have some spook who commanded a desk telling him
how to run it. “It’s utterly necessary, you see,” he said, gesturing toward the figures on the datapad. “As it is, the power
plant cannot sustain the weapons and defensive systems and the engines at the same time. The strain is too much, and you
get a slow ship – relatively speaking. She’ll have a fairly low sublight speed, relative to other ships her size.”
“Other ships her size don’t have half her firepower,” Screed said suddenly. A longtime SWO, Screed was one of the most
experienced combat officers in the Republic. “I commanded ships this size for years. I know the class. You put any bloody
ship her size against one of these, and she’ll trash it. Destroy it. Any ship. I’ve seen the specs, Jerjerrod. I’ve seen the
projections, I’ve seen the trials. This ship doesn’t need speed, she’s not picket ship or a battlecruiser. That whole bloody
concept is bankrupt, anyway.”
“Admiral, the ship needs to be able to at least keep pace – “
“I’ve read the report,” Screed waved off the coming argument. “The Council is unanimous. Terminate the power plant
redesign and proceed to the next phase of the project. I want this ship in production ASAP, do you understand?”
Jerjerrod blinked in disbelief. “Sir, with all due respect, the Supreme Defense Council doesn’t have the authority to make
that decision. This project was approved by the Defense Procurement Subcommittee, they have the final say on
production.”
Screed shook his head. “You’re misinformed, Jerjerrod,” he said. “The Victory Project never went before the Subcommittee.
Check your documentation. This project was authorized by the Office of the President under Section 125 of the Emergency
Powers Supplements. And the President has approved our decision. You have your orders.”
Jerjerrod pursed his lips, and then responded the only way he could. “Aye aye, Admiral.”
“Now,” Screed continued. “I want to see the entire installation. Everything related to this project. I want to talk to your
department heads first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Rahab will be assuming responsibility for project security, effective
immediately.” The Chairman of the Supreme Defense Council eyed Jerjerrod and shook his head. “Don’t make this harder
than it has to be, Jerjerrod. You’re a good officer, the President can use you. Just don’t disappoint us. You have a son, don’
t you?”
Jerjerrod nodded. “Yes, Admiral. Lieutenant Jerjerrod is serving on board an Acclamator, over in I Sector.”
“If he’s like you, he’ll do fine,” Screed said, seeming almost conciliatory. “I just hope running behind on important projects
doesn’t run in your family.”
This short story was originally published in late 2004. It was republished on 26 January 2007.
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