by Chris Bunch
"Who sent him?” Sten wanted to know. “He's gotta be a spy, or something. Nobody, but nobody that good would ever volunteer for our dinky little boats."
"He nae be a spy,” Alex said, “alto’ he be a Doorman lad his whole career. The wee spindar checked him out."
"Okay,” Sten said, “but look at his record. Honors, awards, medals, prized exploration assignments.
Personal commendations from every superior officer."
"All peacetime, lad,” Alex reminded. “Also, nae one good word from his ultimate superior—Doorman himself."
"Estill's too good,” Sten said. “I don't trust him."
"We got crew enough for the four ships,” Alex said, “but we're still lackin’ two captains."
Sten mulled that over for a bit, wondering if Lieutenant Estill was an answer to his prayers or the seeding bed for future nightmares. Besides, did Estill have...
"Luck, Ah wonder if the lad has luck?” Alex said, completing Sten's thought. “How desperate are we?"
"If I could put a good first mate with him...” Sten mused.
There was a thrumming of engines overhead, and a loud voice crackled through a hailer across the docks. “Hey, you swabbies get off your butts and give a lady a hand!"
Sten and Alex looked up to see a rust bucket of a tow-ship hovering overhead. The tow pilot already had one ship dangling from its cradle and was moving into position over the Gamble. Long, slender roboarms snaked out and started unfastening the dock lines.
"What in the clot do you think you're doing?” Sten yelled up.
The woman's voice crackled out again. “What's it look like? Moving your ship to the engine test stands. You are on the schedule, aren't you? Or doesn't your captain keep the ranks informed of what's going on?"
"You can't move two ships at once!” Sten shouted back.
"Wanna clottin’ bet? Hell, on a good day I can pull three. Now, get cracking with that line, mister!"
A bit bemused, the two men did what the woman said. And then they watched in awe as she maneuvered Gamble into a sling below the first ship in a few seconds flat. The tow engines roared to full power, and she started away.
"That lass is some pilot, young Sten,” Alex said. “Ah've rarely seen the likes of her."
But Sten was paying him no mind; he was already running along the docks after the tow as it wound its way toward the test stands. By the time he reached the yard, the pilot was already transferring the Gamble over into the work berth.
"Hey, I'm comin’ aboard!” Sten yelled, and without waiting for permission he swarmed up the netting to the towship.
A little later, he found himself squeezed into the tiny pilot's cabin. In person, the woman was even more stunning than her obvious flying talents. She was slender and tall, with enormous dark eyes and long black hair tucked into her pilot's cap. She was looking Sten over, speculatively and a bit amused.
"If this is your way of asking a lady out for a beer,” she said, “I admire the clot out of your gall. I get off in two hours."
"That isn't what I had in mind,” Sten said.
"Oh, yeah? Say, what kind of a sailor are you, anyway?"
"A commander type sailor,” Sten said dryly.
The woman gave him a startled look, then groaned. “Oh, no. Me and my big ensign yap. Well, guess there goes my job. Ah, what the clot! I was lookin’ for one when I found this gig."
"In that case,” Sten said, “report to me tomorrow at 0800 hours. I got an opening for first mate."
"You gotta be kidding.” The woman was in shock.
"Negative. Interested?"
"Just like that, huh? First mate?"
"Yep. Just like that. Except from now on you gotta call me ‘sir'!"
She chewed that over, then nodded. “I guess I could get used to that."
"Sir,” Sten reminded.
"Sir,” she said.
"By the way, what's your name?"
"Luz, Luz Tapia. Oh, clot, I mean Luz Tapia, sir."
With one shot, Sten had solved the problem of the Richards and his doubts about Estill.
* * * *
Only the problem of a skipper for the Claggett remained. But so far the last hurdle seemed insurmountable. Alex and Sten gloomed over the few remaining names on their list.
"What a sorry lot,” Alex said. “Ah wouldnae make ae of these clots cap'n ae a gravsled."
Sten had to agree. To make matters worse, he was quickly running out of time. And Doorman hadn't been making things easy for him. His aides had been swamping Sten with regular calls asking for status reports and issuing thinly veiled threats.
For one of the few times in his life, Sten found himself stumped.
There was a loud scratching at the door.
"In!” Sten shouted.
There was a pause, and then the scratching came again, louder than before.
Sten jumped to his feet. “Who the clottin hell...” He slapped at the button, and the door hissed open. Sheer horror looked him in the face. Sten whooped with delight.
"What the clot are you doing here?” he yelled.
"Heard you were looking for a captain,” the horror replied.
And Sten fell into Sh'aarl't's arms and arms and arms.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EVEN AS HE walked under the baroque gates into the officer's club grounds, Sten began calling himself several kinds of a dumb clot. Across the vast pampered garden—which Sten was sure was tended by poor swabbies pressed into service by their superiors—he could see the palatial and sprawling building that housed the club.
Even by Prime World standards it would be considered posh. The building was many-columned and pure white. It was lit by constantly playing lights. The central structure had a copper-yellow dome that looked suspiciously as if it had been gold-leafed. Sten gritted his teeth as he thought how many ships could have been outfitted at the obvious cost.
He could hear the sounds of his partying brother and sister officers. Somehow the laughter seemed a little too loud, the howls of enjoyment a little too shrill.
Sten almost turned back. Then he thought, To hell with it. He had come here to celebrate with a by-God decent meal and a few too many drinks. He walked on, determined to have a good time. Besides, everybody on van Doorman's staff couldn't be clots, could they? There were sure to be a few interesting beings, right?
Just to his left was a large tree, cloaked in darkness. As he passed it, a figure came out of the shadows toward him. Sten pivoted, his knife sliding into his palm. The figure seemed to lunge for him, and just as Sten was about to strike, he smelled a strange mixture of strong alcohol and heady perfume. Instead of striking, he caught—and his arms were suddenly filled with surprising softness.
What the hey, so she got a load on? Sten imagined that it wasn't very pleasant being related to van Doorman. So she wanted to kick her heels up a little? She had a right to, didn't she?
Asleep, Brijit seemed very peaceful, little-girl-innocent and ... and ... Get a hold of yourself, Sten. So she's a knockout. She's also the admiral's daughter, remember? Do not think those thoughts. Do not think them at all.
Brijit never woke up when they reached her house, and Sten had to carry her in and tuck her into bed.
He palmed a switch to turn off the lights, sighed, and let himself out.
He found a furious blond man waiting for him at his gravsled. The man was in uniform and wore the insignia of a commander. The last time Sten had seen him had been outside van Doorman's office—he'd been wearing shorts and accompanying Brijit. It did not require much of Sten's deductive powers to figure out who the man was.
"So, there you are, you clot! I'll teach you to—"
The man swung at Sten, starting at his knees and coming straight up. Sten stepped back lightly, and the man almost fell from the force of the swing.
"You must be Rey Halldor,” Sten said. “Brijit's fiancé."
"You're clotting right I am,” Hall
dor said, swinging again.
Sten ducked, holding out both hands, trying to make peace. “Listen, Halldor. I didn't have anything to do with it. She got drunk. I found her. I took her home. Period. That's it. Nothing else happened."
Halldor charged, windmilling. Sten tried to dance aside, but one of the blows caught his ear. It hurt like hell.
"Okay, you clot,” Sten said.
One arm stiffened. A hand connected, and the man found himself lying on his back, looking foolishly up at Sten.
"You ... you hit me,” said an astonished Halldor.
"You're clottin’ right I hit you, Commander,” Sten said. “And if you get up, that's not all I'll do."
"I want your name. Now, you clot."
"The clot you are speaking to is Commander Sten, at your service."
"This isn't the end of it,” Halldor said.
"Right."
Sten vaulted into his gravcar. He almost broke the control panel punching in the code that would take him home.
I just love how you meet people, young Sten. Isn't it just wonderful how you got all the rough edges polished off on Prime World?
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"HEY CHIEF, I think I got something,” Foss said.
Warrant Officer Kilgour, in spite of his years with the less-than-militarily-correct Mantis teams, was offended. “The term is Commander or Sten, son. And that is not the way to report."
Sten, amused, didn't bother to wait for Foss to rejargon. He was instantly across the Gamble's command deck—easily done, since it measured four meters on a side—and was staring at the screen.
"Well,” he said, waiting for the ship's computer to give him a better analysis than a blip, sector, and proximity, “we have something. I guess it ain't birds."
Foss turned red.
Sten's flotilla was on its third week of shakedown. It had not been a thrill a minute.
Combine hardened felons with a naval background with policemen with no military background with eager volunteers with fairly virginal officers, then add to that four state-of-the-art patrolcraft. State of the art is correctly redefined by any engineer or technician with field service as: It will promise you everything and deliver you very little. Under stress or when you really need it, it will break. The Bulkeley-class tacships fulfilled these requirements very exactly.
Sten and Alex had managed twenty hours of sleep each since the Gamble, Claggett, Kelly, and Richards had launched from Cavite Base. The launch, intended to be a smooth soaring out of atmosphere, had been a limp toward space. The AM2 drive on Sh'aarl't's ship, the Claggett, had refused to kick in on command, and the formation had crawled into a holding orbit on Yukawa drive.
It took hours of circuit running before they discovered that someone at the builder's yard had left his lunchtime tabloid—headline: “Emperor to Finally Wed? Escorts Beauty from Nirvana to Ball"—between two filter screens.
Sten's comment about birds was not a joke—the ship's screens had identified one of Cavite's moons as aquatic waterfowls, and the identification had been confirmed by the ship's Jane's. Still worse, the suggested response from the weapons computer had been bows and arrows. Of course, the professionally paranoid recruits from Cavite's police department saw signs of sabotage and Tahn sympathies among the builders. Sten knew better—over the years he'd learned that the more sophisticated a computer was, the more likely it was to independently develop what in humans would be called a sense of black humor. Foss had managed to find the glitch and recircuit it within a day.
Eric Foss was a rare find. If he hadn't been the initial source of recruitment from the police, Sten and Alex might have passed him over. He was a large, red-faced young man just barely old enough to join the military, much less the police. He'd spent his few short months on the Cavite force as a traffic officer.
Despite his bulk, the young man was so quiet, so calm, that he almost seemed asleep. But his test scores on communications of all kinds were awesome and not to be believed. Sten had personally tested him again—and the scores had improved. If Sten had been a superstitious man, he might have thought Foss a sensitive. But instead, he put him in charge of flotilla communications.
Shakedown had continued, always interesting in a morbid sort of way. The fire-system nozzles had been misaligned and filled the weapons compartments with foams; fuel-feed passages were warped; the galley stoves took a Ph.D. to understand, and the refreshers were worse.
On the other hand, all of the ships had power beyond the manufacturer's specs; target acquisition was superfast, and the missile-firing tests went flawlessly.
Unexpectedly, the crewmen and women managed to meld fairly painlessly. The only incident had been one of the ex-cons pulling a knife on an ex-policeman in an argument over the last piece of soyasteak. But the ex-cop had broken the man's arm in six places, snapped the knife in two, and told the officer of the watch that the other poor fellow must have tripped over something.
Even the command ranks were working into shape. Sh'aarl't, on the Claggett, was just as good as Sten had anticipated. Lamine Sekka, on the Kelly, was awesome, and Sten understood how the man's family had survived all those generations as warriors. Lieutenant Estill, backed by Ensign Tapia on the Richards, was coming along. He still had a tendency to follow slavishly on its anticipation every order, but Sten had hopes.
At least no one had fed himself into the power chamber, and no one had rammed anything. Both Sten and Alex, maintaining their public air of “not quite right, guys, try it again,” were pleased.
But sleep was becoming an increasingly attractive future.
Seven more ship-days, Sten had promised himself. Then we are going to practice landing and concealment on the prettiest and most deserted world we can find and practice deep Zen breathing.
At that point, the contact alarm went off. The screen changed from a blip to a blur of words:
* * * *
OBJECT IDENTIFIED AS NON-NATURAL. OBJECT IDENTIFIED AS AM2-POWERED SPACECRAFT. OBJECT ON PROJECTED ORBIT ... (NONCOLLISION) ... NO JANE'S ENTRY CONGRUENT WITH SHIP PROFILE ... SHIP OUTPUTTING ON NO RECEIVABLE WAVELENGTH ... SHIP TENTATIVE ... TENTATIVE ... OPERATING UNDER SILENT RUNNING CONDITIONS...
* * * *
The words became an outline of the oncoming ship. Sten and Alex eyed the screen.
"Ugly clot, wha'e'er she be,” Alex said.
"Almost as ugly as the Cienfuegos,” Sten said, referring to a spy ship, camouflaged as a mining explorer, on which they had almost managed to get themselves killed during their Mantis days.
Alex got it. “Wee Foss, gie her a buzz on the distress freak."
Before Foss could key the frequency, the screen changed again:
* * * *
ANALYSIS COMPLETE OF DRIVE EMISSION—DRIVE CODING SUGGESTS SHIP FROM TAHN WORLDS.
* * * *
Sten keyed the mike. “Unknown ship ... unknown ship ... this is the Imperial Tactical Ship Gamble. You are operating in a closed sector. I repeat, you are operating in a closed sector. Prepare for inspection."
Without waiting for a response, he reached over Foss's shoulder and keyed the com to the “talk between ships” circuit. “Clagett, Kelly, Richards, this is Gamble. All ships, general quarters. All weapons systems on full readiness. All ships slave-link to my flight pattern. All commanders stand by for independent action. This may not be a drill. If fired on, return fire. I say again, this may not be a drill. Gamble out."
A speaker bleated. “Imperial Ship Gamble, this is the Baka. Do not understand your last, over."
There was another frequency change. “Baka, this is Gamble. I say again my last. Stand by for boarding and inspection."
"This is Baka. We wish to protest. We are a civilian exploration ship under correct charter. If there has been any error in our course, we will accept escort out of the restricted sector. We do not wish to be boarded."
"This is Gamble. We are warping parallel orbit. You will be boarded within .
.. eight E-minutes. Any attempt to evade boarding or resistance will be met with the appropriate countermeasures. This is Gamble. Out."
Sten turned to Alex. “Mr. Kilgour. You ... me ... sidearms. Four men with willyguns. Move!"
* * * *
Sten's crew may not have been fully trained as sailors, but they were fairly skilled at breaking and entering. Breaking was not necessary—the Baka had its lock extended and ready. The entrance slid open. Two men were on either side of the tube, willyguns held—not quite—leveled. The other two flanked Sten and Alex. They started down the tube, and their stomachs jumped a little as they crossed from their own artificial gravity field to that of the Baka.
The Baka's inner port opened.
Sten expected to be met with fuming and shouts. Instead there was quiet outrage.
The ship's CO introduced himself as Captain Deska. He was a man of control—but a man who was most angry. “Captain ... Sten, this is totally unwarranted. I shall lodge a protest with my government immediately."
"On what grounds?” Sten asked mildly.
"We have been hijacked merely because we are Tahn. This is rank discrimination—my company has nothing to do with politics."
My company? A ship's captain working for someone would hardly have said “my.” Sten decided that this Deska wasn't terribly good at fraud, “You are in a forbidden sector,” he said.
"You are incorrect. We have the correct clearances and permission. In my cabin."
Sten smiled politely. He would be most interested in inspecting said clearances.
Deska led the way to his cabin. The ship corridors, unlike those of a normal exploration ship, were immaculate and freshly anodized. The crew members were also unusual—not the bearded loners and technicians that normally made up a long-cruise explorer but clean-shaven, cropped-haired, and wearing identical coveralls.
It did not take Sten long to peruse the clearances. He snapped the fiche off and stood up from the small console in Deska's Spartan quarters.
"You see,” Deska said. “That permission was personally requested and cleared by your own Tanz Sullamora. If you have not heard of the man—"