"Hey, did you get any word from the prisoner transport? Have they made it back to US territory?"

  "I dunno, transit makes all reports like that wonky, and if we need that information, I'm sure the Admiral would've sent it back to us."

  Shariah listens to multiple bridge crewmen talking with one another about the small fleet that was detached to transport the Inquisitor back home in order to grant a proper trial. She can't imagine how boring the trip is, especially since the Admiral will spend most of it curled over a toilet. Yet, that isn't her biggest concern at the moment. She will admit things have been incredibly peaceful on the two worlds the US fleet has claimed as special relief zones, although one was entirely purged, unlike the one they are using as a staging point and research area. The other world, where the Spooks had messed up and caused a full planetary extermination because they spread a new religion, is now a barren rock, but it does fall under US protection due to abandonment by the original owners. Everything has been quiet, not a single Kingdom ship has been seen since the capture of the Inquisitor, but that isn't the problem...

  Shariah is bellyaching over how Rear Admiral Hollander was specifically requested to return home with the prisoner when Shariah would've been the better choice overall, as her capability as a commander of the entire expeditionary force is limited at best, plus she is a skilled orator, and her testimony would be very valuable. Another problem is that Captain LeBlanc's ship was chosen as the main prison vessel, so she is gone as well. This means the most senior of all the naval officers is missing, with only a few of the other captains in the fleet being old guys with some experience under their belts, but nothing compared to the two decorated officers who are now missing. Luckily, she doesn't have to deal with the army as Colonel Hollander is still around, and he seems content to just do relief on the ground, which makes Shariah's job a little easier since he doesn't ask for much.

  Everything seems to be shrouded in mystery at the moment, coming from home. After a new president was put into office,e every communication was sent directly to the Admiral and Shariah was left on a need-to-know basis. It seems odd for someone who is the second in command to be treated almost like a junior officer, but there have been a few concerning issues that she has picked up on through what she was able to listen in on. Mostly that the UEG was really pushing for a major war, not satisfied with occasional border skirmishes. Some reports even state they may be going for a total war, seeking the destruction of the USA, but that's normal fear-mongering done by reporters.

  "Who knows..."

  Shariah says to herself in a distant tone. She starts going through all the alerts the USS Catfish has been sending to the computer in her head and can't figure out how naval officers manage all of this. Although she does understand her specific device is more for standard messaging and minor visual overlays in daily activity and during duty, the naval officer one tends to interface with the ship better and allows the many shipboard AI to parse most of the data. Shariah has to send the request manually after some parsing of her own, rather than just a single thought like the sailors. This means every shift Shariah is working, takes about four hours longer than what the Admiral needs, even though he does work longer hours than everyone thanks to his genetics.

  Shariah does wonder why command took their biggest guns though, even with war coming, do a single battleship and two heavy cruisers really mean anything strategically?

  "Three....Two..... One.... and we are out of FTL, welcome back to the USA ladies and gents."

  The navigators speaks over the comms to everyone and there is a bout of slight cheering. Captain LeBlanc sits on her seat of command and looks over at the still green-looking Rear Admiral next to her who moans,

  "Thank God."

  The Captain laughs to herself before saying to the man in a sing-song voice,

  "Ohhh Admiral Hollander, its great to see such an important and senior officer like yourself is still so heavily affected by such a major part of our job. Makes me feel extra motivated to fight and die for you sir."

  Rear Admiral Hollander responds, now feeling much better,

  "Can it captain, there are ears everywhere and I don't need any insubordination out of you until we are off duty. Then you can feel free to poke fun at me all you want. Things are getting sticky here at home, and our job is important, so we need everyone on top."

  Captain LeBlanc asks,

  "Is that actually what you want to say, or your practiced response after spilling your guts earlier?"

  The Rear Admiral huffs but doesn't respond, confirming the second one is the correct answer.

  The two naval officers remain on the bridge as the external cameras come back on revealing only void, which is expected as the outermost system closest to the Eternal Kingdom has one small rocky planet, very few asteroids, and the only habitation is what is known as a frontier station which are usually dedicated to research, but for the most part work as important relays for ships without FTL communications being equipped with strong receivers for any type of distress signal and a direct line to the coast guard to call for help. This gives them the nickname of lighthouses as well, depending on who asks. They always broadcast massive signals showing their exact location, which works like the space equivalent of a rotating light.

  The commanders share swigs from a flask of navy hooch from Captain LeBlanc's ship as they travel through the void with their radiator sails extended, still dissipating as much heat as they can after an FTL journey, as the reactor is set to the highest setting to replace all the energy expended. Both commanders can't help but sigh in relief, happy to finally be within friendly territory. LeBlanc can see something weighing on the Rear Admiral, judging by the look in his eye. Despite their short relationship, they both had poured their hearts out to one another, except for age which was the big problem in the end, and from that time LeBlanc can remember what that expression means, it means the Rear Admiral knows there is a storm coming, and it will require him to push himself far beyond what any man should be able to handle alone...

  Yet they still have multiple weeks of travel to reach the current seat of the federal government, the planet known as New Washington...

  On either side of me are two marines wearing jet-black powered armor. Their helmets more resemble Morion helmets with faceplates resembling an Armet helmet, rather than the bascinet of the standard marines. These are presidential guard marines, rather than the boys in blue and white from the old USA. These are actual defensive shocktroopers, modified beyond normal marines and kitted with slightly more advanced armor, mostly focused on being able to be used as human shields for their VIP. Instead of being armed with heavy weapons chambered in their standard .338 caseless or the Deuces, the ones under my command were issued these monsters of men are armed with a new weapon called a SmartDefender or an SD gun. Basically, it's a dual-feed 20-gauge shotgun that fires either pinpoint-precision semi-guided sabot darts with self-destroying sabots or a few tungsten pellets for more traditional shotgun roles. It can fight against power armored infantry or against unarmored infantry without much concern for collateral damage. I've always wanted to get my hands on one, but only the Secret Service and presidential guard can get their hands on them easily. The problem is the manufacturer only exists here on New Washington and makes each one custom-built, so there is a massive waiting list to get one... and I'm number 2240 for mine...

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  The power armored guards walk in silence next to me; even their armored footsteps are drowned out by the hard soles of my dress boots. The whole while I adjust my trifold hat and tailcoat, I am nervous about my state of dress. This doesn't even mention the new feather I wear in my cap, which annoys me to no end. I hate having to get a new uniform just because I got a new rank, but apparently, I'm not allowed to simply modify my old commodore uniform when in the presence of politicians. I need to "look the part of a competent admiral" or something like that.

  I've met with high brass before, multiple senators, and even a court justice, but today is my biggest visit, and that's with the newly elected president, the one elected after the death of the last one.

  Unlike the past US, the vice president doesn't automatically get a full term after the passing of their boss; they only hold the office as an interim until all of Congress and the House can be brought back to New Washington for an emergency presidential election. It avoids most of the headaches of campaign season, but some have called it unfair as it doesn't allow for massive outreach for each elect. The good news for everyone is that the reactionary president only finishes the term of the last one before having to run in a full election in year 4. As compensation, they are allowed two terms on top of their miniature term, unless they serve for three years of that partial term, which then counts as a full term. Usually, the VP wins these elections as they usually screw up badly enough to warrant a whole change of office, but this time was one of those times. The last president and her cabinet were reactionary to the war that happened seven years ago now, despite victory, most Americans became a little gun-shy so a more peaceful cabinet was elected... and well the saber rattling of the UEG and their border incisions really pissed off the American populace so when the curse took Madam President the votes swung hard for a more military oriented leader.

  I wasn't briefed on the new president, mostly because I got too distracted to cast my vote, and no one else told me who the candidates were. I do feel a little scared because there are some people in the federal government I have pissed off before, not to mention any number of military brass. I look at the two monstrous marines next to me nervously, wondering if I am being escorted for a dressing down or possibly a presidential-ordered dismissal because of my actions with the aliens. We make it to the door of the Oval Office, and before we enter or knock, one of the marines speaks in a deep and gravely voice,

  "Alright, one hand, go inside, you are expected."

  I pause for a moment, hearing the friendly insult, but act like I wasn't surprised and respond,

  "Alright, jarhead, if this goes sideways, you'd better get in there fast before I jam my size 14 up the president's ass."

  There is no sound as the Marines had turned off their speakers, but I can see their shoulders shuddering, showing their shared laughter. With a sigh, I step forward, and the big wooden doors of the Oval Office open, and I am slammed with the thick smoke from multiple cigars. I suppress the urge to cough as I enter the smokehouse and see a group of three gray-haired men sitting near the president's desk, and at the desk is the gray-haired man himself. The three men are the Chief of Naval Operations, the Director of Defense, and the Chief of Staff of the Army. Out of a massive cloud of cigar smoke, a voice booms out,

  "Alright, old man, you're finally here."

  I click my heels and salute the men before me until the president barks,

  "At ease, Hollander. This isn't how you're supposed to greet old friends, especially one whose first posting was as your personal whipping boy."

  I shake my head, chuckling, and say,

  "Boys, it's been a while. Glad to see I'm not the only old fuck still alive."

  The gray and white haired men all share a round of hearty chuckles. The current sitting president is my first, first mate I ever had during my career. Back on my old lover, the Starwish, before I ordered evacuation. I haven't seen him in literal decades, and it appears he has gotten more into politics since then. The Army Chief of Staff was one of my bunk mates during my short stint in the Marshall program, and when I got my white beret, which allowed me to command both ground and naval forces. The Naval Chief is just an old buddy from my Naval Academy days; we used to get into scraps all the time. Finally, the Director of Defense is the last of the non-augmented Marines from decades ago, still hulking for a normal human, but without any of the marine modifications. And the funniest part, I'm the oldest in this group. By one year at the most, but despite looking like I did when I graduated, I am older than all of these wrinkly and white maned codgers.

  I drop my salute, and I shake all of their hands and give a brotherly hug to each one of them. It had been a long time since I had an actual conversation with them, and hell, I'm surprised they were allowed anywhere near a political station, knowing what these boys did on leave back in the day. The President hands me a glass of presidential bourbon, and I refuse a cigar. I find one of the plush chairs and pull it over and take a seat. I remove the glove from my right hand, revealing the metal one underneath as I sip the drink in my left. Subconsciously, I start flicking my fingers again, the sound of metal on metal quietly filling the Oval Office as a nearby speaker plays oldie music from the original USA.

  I then start the conversation,

  "As much as I love to be sitting around like old farts drinking and reminiscing about the old days, you and I both know there is a reason you pulled me from alien territory."

  The President nods and responds in his gruff old officer voice,

  "Alright, Hollander, I'll keep it straight with you. We are going to have a major war, not like the last one with the UEG. I'm thinking it's gonna be the big one, and some of the other human nations may get involved. Analysts are already calling it the "Earth War" as that seems to be the main war goal of the UEG and their allies. Their newest director is a zealot and thinks just because his nation has Earth in the name, humanity's homeworld belongs to them. Stupid thinking, we won it fair and square when we pried it from the UNCA.

  So we want to put our alien mission on hold. You did good work, very good work, and we want you back out there again, but we cannot let good officers be way out in alien space. So we are going to leave a token fleet out there with all the diplomats, smart people, and aid workers for self-defense, but we cannot push the mission any further. That Inquisitor or whatever he is, will be a good propaganda piece for us, showing how we bring freedom and do not tolerate assholes like that, even with aliens. Red Cross has sent some damn good pictures back showing his terrible work, and showing those under your command being all goody and compassionate. So the mission should keep popular support after the war."

  I nod and ask,

  "So where do I fit in? Or are ya just explaining this to me so I don't get salty for going back to fighting?"

  He laughs, and the Navy Chief tosses a paper folder onto my lap with a big red stamp on it. Paper is used for only the highest level of classified documents because you cannot hack into a filing cabinet. I don't open it but share a look with the four men and nod for an explanation. The Navy Chief responds,

  "In that folder is a new program you will definitely take an interest in, and all four of us agree you are the best man for the job. This is going to be a huge war, and we need the best guns, tactics, and equipment, and it will always help to have a veteran officer like yourself in the fight."

  I nod and open the folder and scan over the first few pages inside, giving an abstract of the program, and I can't help but let out a low whistle. The Director of Defense then explains,

  "Our friends at the Skunkworks have been busy analyzing all the data from the last war with the UEG, and they also did a little bit of introspection when it comes to our own ship design philosophies, and we asked, How can we make them better. Thus, in your hands is the accumulation of all that research mixed with the best manufacturing processes we have available, project Nova."

  I interrupt reading,

  "A class of hyper-mobile battleships designed to cut down on crew and human error in warfare. Armed specifically for the annihilation of enemy targets of priority at ranges maxing at six light seconds for mobile targets. Grade of weaponry resulting in a planet-cracker-class vessel at around half the size of similarly potent vessels. The project is largely designed for a stealthier-than-usual ship with extreme-grade electronic warfare suites for detection and diversion of enemies. A vessel class designed to work alone and outside of standard naval doctrine."

  The men nod at my reading, and I ask,

  "So you want me to take this thing out for a spin?"

  The President nods, responding,

  "Yes, but it's not singular; we have two of them built, the Nova herself is our prototype, we have a single production model waiting for you. So you up for it?"

  I smile and down my drink, exclaiming,

  "You know it. I'll give those Euros a good beating!"

  The men chuckle, but the Navy Chief explains,

  "Well, no more food or drink from here on out. We'll schedule your surgery."

  I furrow my brows, asking,

  "What surgery?"

  The Director of Defense sighs, explaining,

  "You'll understand after reading that whole folder, but the new hardware on the Nova-class is not compatible with your old back sockets; you gotta go get new cyber installed so you can become one with the ship."

  I sigh with a nod and begin poring over the folder. The rest of the day, in order to keep me distracted, all five of us old men shoot the shit and talk about our current lives...