Scutley, being a hologram, was not injured by the chair leg penetrating his form. He was, nonetheless, quite annoyed by it. Scutley was a sensitive and complex program, and his algorithm included a quite sophisticated system for processing and responding to insults.
In other words, Scutley got angry. "Excuse me!" He cried out across the chaos of the barroom.
The brawlers enthusiastically continued their brawling.
"Hey!" Scutley called out, more loudly. "I'm talking here!"
The large elbow beside him knocked the large glass beside him off the bar, as the large person to whom the large elbow belonged jumped in surprise at Scutley's outburst.
"Oh, shit," said Carson. "What lousy timing!"
"Who's the funny little guy?" asked one of the nudes.
"My name, madame, is Scutley," the hologram said with quiet indignation. "And I am here on official military business. And," he added, "I am not funny."
The nude's giggle was interrupted as Carson leapt to his feet, unceremoniously dumping her on the now-littered floor. As she muttered obscenities and crawled away, ducking kicks and blows and flying objects, Carson turned to the hologram.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Your leave, Mister Carson."
Carson snapped his fingers, engaging his personal data implant. The time appeared in front of him as a set of glowing, holographic numerals. "We've got two hours left," he argued.
"Wrong," said Scutley. "You're late. The Deputy Captain has shortened your leave."
"He can't do that!"
"He's the Deputy Captain. He can do anything. And, if you don't report to Titan on the double, 'anything' will include time in the brig for all of you."
"Dammit," said Carson. He turned back to the brawl and called out, "Hey!" This was followed by "Quiet!" and "Yo!" and "Fire!" None elicited any reaction. He picked up a handy (and miraculously unbroken) liquor bottle and smashed it, dramatically, against the edge of the bar. The sound was drowned out by the other sounds of breaking furniture. "They're not listening," he said finally.
"I'll handle this," said Scutley, adding a contemptuous, "Humans!" under his breath.
The Scutley program had been designed for communicating information in a variety of scenarios, while confronted with all manner of interference. It was not daunted by the open warfare which surrounded its holographic personification now. It cycled its audio signal volume up by a factor of one hundred. At the same time, it magnified its visual aspect over 800 per cent, and increased its luminance to a painful threshold.
A 25-foot Scutley appeared in the center of the combat, shining with an aura nearly as blinding as a naked sun. Its obscenely large mouth opened, and a foghorn-like bellow shook the room.
"Knock it off!"
The brawlers ceased, craning their necks to see the head of the giant figure as it scraped the arched supports of the tavern ceiling. There were mutters of astonishment, followed by a pervasive quiet, which seemed to please Scutley. He surveyed the small human figures with satisfaction.
"Thank you," he said, clearly not meaning it. "Now, as I was saying: Midshipmen of the CNV Titan, Deputy Captain Phyn Darby hereby orders you to report to him forthwith aboard ship. No extensions. No excuses. That is all."
Carson, who had joined his fellows when Scutley had stifled his viewing pleasure, said quietly, "Damn. I was hoping to lay some money on the big guy."
"Thanks," said Metcalfe, massaging a strained shoulder. "Your support means so much." He sighed. "Well, I guess we'd better jump a shuttle."
"You had better," said Aer'La. "The order was to the midshipmen. I didn't hear a word about the ship's master. I'm not really an officer, so I can stay and fight." She scanned the remaining brawlers. "Fellas? Anyone still up for a workout?"
Suddenly, no one in the bar wanted to make eye contact with the slight, blue-skinned teenager who had, in the last two minutes, broken more bones than there are in a single human body. Aer'La appeared supremely disappointed.
"Guess I'll head over with you guys," she said glumly. She started for the door.
"Hold it," a voice squeaked from behind the bar. Then the same voice cleared its throat, and said more confidently, "Just a minute." The bartender stepped out, advancing on the small party of officers. "Don't think you're walking out of here without paying for this mess."
"Paying?" Aer'La demanded. "You expect us to pay, when those idiots," she pointed, indicating essentially everyone in the room who hadn't come to the tavern with her, "started this?" She advanced on the barkeep.
Metcalfe's hand shot out and caught her shoulder. Physically, he could never have actually restrained her, but the gesture did seem to get her attention.
"Never mind, Aer'La," said Metcalfe, and, to the barkeep, "We'll cover it." He tapped his palm, activating his own data implant. His credit account number appeared in front of the man's nose. "Charge it to me."
The man nodded, and seemed to relax. He'd clearly been expecting more resistance. "Uh... Right." Then he scanned the information presented and, upon realizing the identities of his guests, his face tinged with embarrassment. "I should have expected, of course, that officers under Captain Atal would pay their debts... as well as," he added, now glowering at the non-military contingent of the brawlers, "those of others. Couldn't you –"
"I'm afraid we have to go," said Metcalfe. He indicated the area where the Scutley image, having completed its programmed assignment, no longer stood gazing down at the dregs of humanity. The proprietor nodded sadly, and gazed after them as they exited. No doubt he was promising himself that, in future, he would check the celebrity status of his guests immediately upon their arrival in his humble place of business.
* * *
"No, I'm very sorry, Mister... Metcalfe," said the dockmaster. "There are no other shuttles available."
Metcalfe blew out a heavy breath, ruffling chestnut bangs not yet trimmed to a style appropriate away from the Border. They'd been waiting for fifteen minutes. After they'd asked to have their shuttle readied for boarding, the dockmaster had said he had to "check something." He'd returned with this baffling answer.
"I didn't ask about other shuttles," said Metcalfe tersely. "I asked about ours. The one we arrived in. The one we left with you."
"Ah. Well, of course, that one was taken."
"Taken?" Metcalfe demanded. "You mean stolen?"
"Commandeered, actually."
"Commandeered," Metcalfe repeated calmly.
"That's right."
"Not many people have the authority to commandeer the XO's shuttle."
"Executive officer?" the dockmaster asked with polite embarrassment. "I wasn't aware, sir. Your shuttle was taken by your fellow midshipman, Mister Blaurich."
"Mister who?"
Kaya wrinkled her nose as if a very large mammal had farted nearby. "Sestus Blaurich," she explained. "Dad didn't tell me he was on Titan, though I should have guessed. This is the kind of stunt he and his family would pull. Just to prove they can."
Metcalfe turned back to the dockmaster. "We have orders to report immediately to Titan," he said. "And we need our ship."
"I understand. I wish I could provide it. Unfortunately, as I've already told you, it is gone, and there are no others. You'll have to wait for the crew transport in three hours. Again, I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Now, if you'll excuse me," the dockmaster turned his back and left the counter, returning to his office.
"Great," said Metcalfe. "He's sorry for the inconvenience."
"He isn't actually," said Cernaq. "This Blaurich character tipped him rather handsomely to hand over our shuttle."
"Who the hell is this jerk?" Metcalfe demanded.
"Apparently," said Cernaq, "he's the other midshipman. Titan has an allotment of five."
"And Mister... Five... obviously has connections. Or his family does."
"Important connections," Cernaq observed. "He's the heir to an extremely wealthy family corporation on Quintil. His father and two of hi
s uncles also serve in key positions in the Quintil government. It's speculated that he'll complete his tour of duty in the Navy in three years, and then assume control of a segment of the family business. That's assuming he doesn't single-handedly defeat the Qraitians and become the Navy's youngest admiral. He's widely considered to be the 'next Jan Atal.'"
"That'll be the day," said Metcalfe. "How do you know so much about him?"
"I didn't," said Cernaq. "The dockmaster did. The information was foremost in his mind, since he just met Blaurich."
"Oh. Well, that –
"He also has a hot, tight little ass," Cernaq added.
Metcalfe grimaced. "You disturb me, Cernaq."
"It was the dockmaster's opinion, not mine."
"He does have a nice ass," Kaya said matter-of-factly. "A very good body in general, though he doesn't have a clue what to do with it."
At Metcalfe's mildly surprised glance, she added, "I screwed him once. It was forgettable. He's very pretty but very pompous."
"Just your type," said Carson.
"Shut up, Carson," said Kaya. "No, he's not my type. It was at a party, the liquor was poorly selected, the guests were all insipid and boorish. I was just trying to pass the time." A pixieish twinkle appeared in her eye. "Besides, there were news cameras everywhere, and I knew they couldn't resist seeing the son and daughter of industry go at it on the banquet table."
"And you were mad at your father," finished Metcalfe.
"I was not."
"Like hell."
She sighed, caught out. "I was mildly annoyed. He had just told me he wouldn't recommend me to the Academy. I wanted to get his attention."
"By getting laid? I thought Quintils were indifferent to their children's sexual exploits."
"But I was on every holo player for the next two days, being clumsily speared by a boy Daddy detests, right on top of the salmon mousse, which he also detests." She grinned in her former lover's face. "And no one could be indifferent to my sexual exploits, Yank."
Yank. It was Kaya's pseudo-affectionate nickname for him, adopted at the academy. In fact, it was a derogatory epithet for a person from Terra. It implied stupidity, ill health, birth defects, genetic uncleanliness. Anyone else who applied the term to him would be asking for a fight. From Kaya, however, he tolerated it.
Metcalfe shook his head. "I think we should focus on getting to the ship. I doubt the Deputy Captain will accept theft of our shuttle as an excuse."
"I'm on it," said Kaya. She tapped out a pattern on her left palm. Her implant activated, and a stylized logo appeared in hologram in front of her. It was quickly replaced by the disembodied head of a very polite woman. She recognized Kaya immediately and asked what service she required.
"Just hang on a sec," Kaya told her. She crossed to the dockmaster's office window, hologram in tow, and tapped on the plastiglass. After two rounds of finger-drumming, the man appeared in the door, looking harassed.
"Midshipman, I believe I already told you –" he began.
"Oh, I don't need a ship," Kaya said sweetly. "Could you just tell my dispatcher the ring number of this dock, and the available slips? I'm so stupid about these things, and –"
"I don't understand," said the dockmaster. "What dispatcher? Who are you?" he demanded of the hologram.
The woman informed him she represented Atal Holdings Transportation Division, and that she was responsible for getting company officers and their guests anywhere they needed to go.
"Since you couldn't help us," Kaya explained, "I'm having one of my grandfather's private yachts sent round. The pilot will need to know where to meet us, and –"
"Oh no!" said the dockmaster. "That won't do!"
"But we have to get to our ship," said Kaya. "Daddy would be very upset if we were late."
"Daddy?" asked the dockmaster, his face now the color of sun-bleached bone.
"Captain Atal of the Titan," said Kaya. "He's my father."
The dockmaster swallowed hard. "Mistress Atal."
"Midshipman Atal, actually. Also of the Titan.." She stopped and assumed a wistful expression. "I suppose I really shouldn't arrive in company transport."
"No."
"It would look improper."
"Yes."
"It would be talked about on the news."
"Yes."
"It would embarrass the Navy."
"Yes."
"It would cause the Admiralty's Public Information Officer to speak to Internal Affairs, who would investigate the circumstances which led to the Executive Officer's party being deprived of their shuttle –"
"As it happens, I've just found you a shuttle," said the dockmaster.
"I thought you might," said Kaya.
Five minutes later, four midshipman of the Titan, as well as its Boatswain, were shuttling to the great ship in a vessel which the dockmaster at ring seven, slips one through forty-six, reserved – quite illegally – for his own private use. As they cleared the slip, the dockmaster helped himself to a generous portion from a bottle he kept – also quite illegally – in his desk drawer, and swore to himself that he would be unavailable the next time rich Navy brats came to his sandbox to play.
* * *
Titan's boat deck – not a 'landing deck,' as some incorrectly called it, for shuttles did not land as much as light on the skin of the great ship's passenger sphere like bloodsucking insects – was writhing with unwelcome guests when Metcalfe and his party's shuttle arrived. The concourse, which occupied a 90-degree arc at the equator of the sphere, was larger than most enclosed buildings on any planet in the Confederacy. There was still no place for them to stand and breathe comfortably at the same time.
Atal, having been informed of their arrival, made sure he was on hand to steer them clear of the press of reporters who hovered like vultures around each new arrival. He quickly and quietly shunted them, bewildered, into an ante-room meant for temporary storage of mail.
"Hello, children," he grinned at them.
"Dad," demanded Kaya, "what in the world – ?"
"We received orders to report back early –" began Metcalfe.
Aer'La was muttering something about breaking up the bodies on the concourse for more efficient storage when Atal held up his hand.
"Wait," he snapped. They waited. "I apologize for the abrupt termination of your leaves. In fact, it was my fault."
Their eyebrows shot up, but they remained silent.
Atal went on, "Plans were made – without my knowledge – to hold this ceremony a day out from launch."
"Ceremony?" asked Kaya.
"A launching ceremony," Atal explained.
"But you didn't want –" began Metcalfe.
"I didn't, no. Others... did. It seems we're wanted to parade ourselves before the cameras and look heroic. I have my own opinions on the matter of the ceremony being planned before your leave was over. I will not share them. Suffice to say that I could not delay or cancel the launch ceremony, but I could make damned sure my officers were here to accept their dubious honors along with me."
"That is very considerate of you, Captain," said Cernaq.
Atal laughed bitterly. "We'll see if you still hold that opinion when you've come out the other end of this ordeal, Mister Cernaq."
* * *
When Atal and his young officers had last embarked on a mission, they'd gone to meet Arbiter at the Border. There had been no moments of ceremony. They'd left the Rigel system in a cramped shuttle, departing a dimly lit, dusty docking bay usually reserved for freight. Even the dockmaster had been asleep, and thus not available to wish them well on their journey.
Today, for all they could tell, the entire population of Quintil was on the concourse. A large contingent of the press and dignitaries would stay with them for the first day or so of the voyage. It was a posh vacation for them. Titan boasted a five-star hotel, after all. Those not actually riding the ship to its next port of call or rendezvous with a commercial liner, numbering in the millions, watched o
n holo or from the observation decks of the orbital station.
There was a clamor from the audience when Jan Atal, accompanied by his officers, mounted the patriotically draped dais which Phyn Darby had ordered assembled for the occasion. Atal, flanked by Darby, stepped to the fore. The five midshipmen, Doctors Flynn and Faulkner, and Aer'La lined up behind them with a dozen or so minor officers.
It was a small cadre of officers, for Titan was a heavily departmentalized ship. While Atal theoretically commanded all of it, he and his officers were really only directly in charge of the command module and engineering. A separate corps of marines, who would join the ship in three days, staffed the gun decks and handled torpedoes, space to surface missiles, and the like. They theoretically were answerable to the Naval command crew, but a wise captain knew they had their own culture, and generally left them to do their jobs. He also did not blur the boundaries by inviting their officers to stand with his at public appearances.
As he allowed the applause to reach its crescendo, Atal gestured for the midshipmen to come forward and stand with him. Darby's face was immediately at his ear.
"Don't you think it would be sufficient, Captain, to let Mr. Blaurich represent the junior officers?"
Atal smiled politely. "I do not, Mr. Darby. If I did, I would have invited him alone." Adding insult to injury, he was well aware, Atal motioned Aer'La forward as well. Darby made a complete blank of his expression and stared straight out, above the audience.
Atal lifted his hands, looking as though he were offering a blessing upon those gathered before him. He wasn't aware that he looked this way, nor was the majority of his audience. Religion was a dead concept in most of the civilized galaxy. Those pockets where it continued, like Terra, like Hecate, kept it to themselves. Still, the gesture had the benefit of quieting the heathen assemblage.
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