“This, people,” Truman said, gesturing once more with the light-pointer, “is the lead unit of the Shrike-class. She masses twenty thousand tons, and, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” the pointer reached into the HD, “there have been some changes, including the omission of the standard hammerheads. That’s because this vessel’s primary energy armament is right here.” The pointer touched the small ship’s sleek prow. “A one-point-five-meter spinal mount equipped with the latest grav lenses,” she told them, watching their eyes, “which permits her to carry a graser—not a laser—approximately as powerful as that mounted in our Homer-class battlecruisers.”

Gearman sucked in sharply at that. Not surprisingly, Truman thought. Chase energy weapons were always among the most powerful any warship carried, but the graser she had just described had an aperture fifty-six percent greater than chasers mounted in most light cruisers six times the Shrike’s size. But she’d heard the same reaction from someone in almost every group she’d briefed on the new LACs, and she ignored the sound of surprise and continued in that same Saganami Island voice.

“The power of this weapon is made possible because it is the only offensive energy weapon she mounts, because her missile armament has been substantially downsized, because her impeller node mass has been cut by forty-seven percent, and because her crew is even smaller than that normally assigned to a LAC. Her entire complement will consist of only ten people, which allows a major reduction in life support tonnage. In addition, her normal reactor mass bunkerage has been omitted.”

She paused, and Gearman looked at her with a very strange expression. She only waited, and finally he shook his head.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Did you say her bunkerage had been omitted?”

“Aside from that required for her reaction thrusters, yes,” Truman confirmed.

“But—” Gearman paused, then shrugged and took the plunge. “In that case, Ma’am, just what does she use to fuel her fusion plant?”

“She doesn’t have one,” Truman told him simply. “She uses a fission pile.”

Three sets of eyebrows flew up as one, and Truman smiled thinly. Humanity had abandoned fission power as soon as reliable fusion plants became available. Not only had fusion posed less of a radiation danger, but hydrogen was one hell of a lot easier and safer (and cheaper) than fissionables to process. And, Truman knew, Old Earth’s Neo-Luddite lunatics, who’d been doing their level best to abolish the very concept of technology as somehow inherently evil about the time fusion power first came along, had managed to brand fission power with the number of the beast as the emblem of all that was destructive and vile. Indeed, the rush to fusion had been something much more akin to a stampede, and unlike most of the claptrap the Neo-Luddites had spouted, fission power’s evil reputation had stuck. Contemporary journalists had taken the negatives for granted at the time, since “everyone knew” they were true, and no popular historian had been particularly interested in reconsidering the evidence since, especially not when the technology was obsolete, anyway. So for most of the human race, the very concept of fission power was something out of a dark, primitive, vaguely dangerous, and only dimly remembered past.