Devil to the Belt (v1.1)

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Yessir.”

  “I have confidence in you,” Graff said, turned and walked him back to the marine guards, “Corporal. One of you take Mr. Dekker where he wants to go. Get him what he needs. —I suggest it’s a beer, Mr. Dekker. I strongly suggest it’s a beer. Tell galley I said so. Check with me if they quibble.”

  “Yes, sir,” the marine said. “This way, sir.”

  “Beer, sir,” the guard said, had even gotten it for him and brought it to him at a table back in the galley, quiet refuge in a flurry of cooks and a clatter of pans around them—and in consideration of the Rules around this place, and politeness, and the damned regulations—Dekker shoved the kid’s hand back across the table, with: “Sip, at least. Where I come from—fair’s fair.”

  “Nossir,” the corporal said, and shoved the beer into his hand, “We can, any evening, and you guys can’t, and, damn, you guys earn it.”

  Misted him up, he’d had no expectation of that, and he hid it in a sip of beer. Guy he didn’t know. Young kid who was going to ride that carrier out there with two thousand other guys and get blown to hell if he made a mistake.

  Guy’s name was Bioomfield, T.

  And if Graff could have done anything personal for him—he was grateful to the lieutenant for Cpl. Bioomfield, who didn’t know him, had no personal questions, didn’t chatter at him, just let him sip his beer. He felt the alcohol go straight for his bloodstream and his head: after months of abstinence he was going to be a serious soft hit. He thought about going back to barracks and catching some sleep, he thought about his crew and Jamil and the guys he knew; and he wanted quiet around him, just quiet, no one to deal with, and when they got to the changes they were going to make in assignments—that wasn’t going to happen.

  He wondered where Meg was, most of all, finally said to Bioomfield, “You have a com with you. You think you guys could locate a female about my height, red hair, shave job, Reel uniform...?”

  “That one,” Bioomfield said reverently. And kept any remark he might have to himself. “Yessir.” And got on the com and said, “This is Bioomfield. Anybody on the com know where the redhead is?”

  Remarks came back, evidently. Bioomfield listened to something on the earplug, struggled for a sober face, and asked, looking at him: “You want her here, sir?”

  He managed a laugh. “Tell her it’s Paul Dekker asking. Cuts down on casualties.”

  CHAPTER 16

  YOU knew it was bad, Mitch put it, and trez correctly so, Meg thought—when they gave the whole barracks a beer pass, and brought cans and chips into the sacred barracks to boot. Pod sims were severely crashed, mags could be down a week, if sabotage wasn’t the cause, as was the running speculation in the barracks: in which case, plan on longer.

  Beer helped the mood, though: the ping-pong game got highly rowdy, a couple of armscompers not quite in their best form, but at least everybody was laughing. Word from hospital was guardedly optimistic—the meds weren’t talking about life and death with Jamil and the guys now, but how long they’d be in hospital, about the percentage they could expect to come back and how soon. Jamil was conscious, Trace was. In the ruckus around the table, nobody questioned Ben and Sal slipping late into barracks. Ben just settled down soberly on Dek’s other side with: “Heard the news. Bad stuff,” while Sal went for beers. “Meg pulled them out,” Dek said, “Got to them fast as anybody alive could. And the sim chief was on fuckin’ duty this time, didn’t have to stop to get fuckin’ Tanzer’s fuckin’ authorization, he just braked the other mags and cut the power, was all. The worst part’s the stop. I can tell you that. —They go on and switch you guys, or is somebody going to tell me what they did, or what?”

  Dek had had considerably more than one beer, not a happy drunk, but direct.

  “Yeah, they switched us. Damned right they did.”

  At which Dek looked at Ben and Meg recognized it was a good thing Sal came back with the beers.

  Dek asked: “Why in hell didn’t you tell me?”

  Ben took his beer and Meg held her bream. Ben said: “Because they could’ve said no deal. And you already knew.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yes, you did. Give me armscomp, hell, I don’t want the guns ... why’d they give me the guns? I’m a numbers man. So Sal said, ‘Want to trade?’ and I said, ‘You friggin’ got it, give me the comp and I’ll get you the fire-tracks ...’ “

  “Bully, Ben.” Dek’s voice wobbled of a sudden. “What are they going to do about it, then?”

  Like he didn’t know. Like he hadn’t told her, in a couple of minutes during which Cpl. Bloomfield had been calling the hospital, checking on Jamil.

  “Come on, cher.” Sal squatted down with her beer and patted Dek on the knee. “Screw the regs. Ben’s the numbers, Ben’s always been the numbers—”

  Ben said, “Armscomp and longscan’s integrated boards, what’s the difference, who’s punching up, who’s punching in? They ran us switched, as a pair, didn’t have an iota of trouble with the sim—Sal’s got to get the feel for the ordnance, but she’s on it...”

  “It’s not a free lunch, Ben.”

  “Close as. I got my hands on that system, Dek-boy, I got a system runs like it’s friggin’ elegant—”

  Ben was in serious lust. Dek looked at him. Dek was going to hit him, Meg thought, poised to grab. But Dek didn’t.

  Sudden quiet from the ping-pong match. Rapid fall-off of noise from the door inward, and she looked, where, God, it was VDC uniforms incoming, senior guys; and the lieutenant was with them. Guys were coming to their feet. They did.

  “Villanueva...” Dek murmured. The redoubted Captain Villy, then.

  “At your ease,” Graff said—official voice, that. Something sure as hell was up. Nobody moved. “Personal message first,” Graff said. “Jamil says he’s coming back. Says he and Dekker are in a race.”

  Fly-by was a show-out, but, God, that was good news: he was no cheap write-off and neither was his crew. Cheers at that. A faint laugh out of Dek.

  “As you know,” Graff continued, “the mag interfaces took damage in shut-down, repair crews can handle that... but the larger question is what caused the pod to hang, and we are not putting crews back into the moving sims until we can pinpoint a cause and ensure operational safety. This does not, however, mean the program is at stand-down.”

  Whole room must be breathing in unison, Meg thought. Good on everything they’d heard so far. But there were the UDC uniforms.

  Just hope to God they aren’t putting us back under Tanzer.

  “—Lab-sims will continue as scheduled. We have also made selection of Fleet crews for a carrier operations exercise—”

  “Test run,” Dekker muttered, at her side. Translation from a lot of sources, to the same effect.

  “—starting within the hour.” Quiet settled. Quickly. “In the meanwhile we are taking steps to integrate Fleet and UDC instructional and operational personnel. You will see UDC personnel in Fleet areas, eventually in barracks: on which matter I want to say something specific Rising murmur of dismay. The lieutenant waited, frowning.

  “There was an incident reported to me, out of rec-hall, an attempt from a UDC crew to meet this company halfway, which was reciprocated with good grace. As a pilot myself, I appreciate the cnticality of operational confidence in fellow personnel—let’s be blunt: confidence of that kind was a casualty of the Wilhelmsen run.

  “But what went wrong with this program does not serve this program; and when you’re heads-up and hands-on, what doesn’t serve this program doesn’t serve you or the carrier you’re defending. I don’t have to spell out to you the reality for the future: that you will be working with UDC crews, whose lives will be equally at risk, including the lives of personnel aboard your carrier. Competition is well and good where it brings out extreme effort. But the relationship between the four core crewmembers of this ship will be extended eventually to the complete thirty-member support team aboard, who will rely on core
crew: in the same way, a carrier’s four Hellburner crews will have to rely on each other, and on that carrier and its internal support crew, for survival. There is no more serious business. Those of us from merchanter background have never quarreled with your style or your customs—and we refuse to quarrel with the personal customs of our sister service out of the inner system. Whatever makes a crew work, is that unit’s business and only their business: that’s the position we’ve always taken. That’s the position we expect you to take now, because when you’re out there in the wide dark, friends, your personal style, and whether you’re from Sol’s inner or outer system, doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. The reliance you have on the crews making up your defensive envelope-—that’s all you’ve got. Those are your brothers and your sisters. And me uniform will not matter.”

  Murmur from the barracks, worried murmur.

  Graff cut it off with: “The names of the pilots...” and got instant quiet. “.. .of the three crews selected, given alphabetically: Almarshad,... Dekker,... Mitchell. Those crews: pack immediately and board ECS4 within the hour; your quarters in this barracks will remain in your name, sacrosanct. You have no mass limit for this particular run: the carrier’s engines will not notice your handweights or your case of soft drinks, for that matter; but remember that all electronics aboard must be listed with the duty officer, and alcohol and medications of any sort must be dispensed by carrier staff only.

  “Other crews will keep listed schedules. That’s all, guys, have a good evening. We’ll have a further briefing after breakfast call.”

  “Lieutenant!” Mitch called out. “Is that as in—test flight?”

  “It’s as in keeping this program going, Mr. Mitchell. You’ll get more specific briefings after you’re aboard. That’s all I can tell you. I won’t be making this trip. You’ll be under the orders of Comdr. Edmund Porey, specifically. Goodbye, good luck, good outcome.”

  “Porey!” Sal beamed.

  “What in hell are they doing?” Ben muttered, which was what she was thinking. “They’re crazed,” Dek said, and called out, “Lieutenant!” started across the room.

  And stopped, still, arms at his sides, just stopped, for no reason she could see. The lieutenant was still standing there, looking straight at him with a worried expression, but Dek didn’t ask his question and the lieutenant didn’t give his answer.

  “Shit!” Sal said, and went for Dek before she had the brains to, as Graff walked out with Villanueva, and guys were coming up and accosting her and Sal and Ben with congratulations—noisy and excited gatherings around Almarshad and Mitch and their guys, speculation flying... upbeat: the whole program had crashed on them, and now everything was moving faster than anyone thought.

  “Dek.” She got his attention and he looked sane—sane and a little shaken. Ben overtook and asked: “What are we doing in this sort-out?”

  “We have to pack,” Dek said for an answer, which meant, to an old Company hand, We can’t discuss it here.

  Another time-glitch, the station’s smooth pale surfaces to the carrier’s spartan corridors, foam steel and color codes, lights that worked only when there was presence, hand-lines rigged every which way, and deja-vu on every surface. The rigging crew had been kind enough to supply a hand-line with a color cue and Dekker followed it, herding the duffle along, the head of his little column, Mitchell’s group and Almarshad’s. Long, long way from the entry to me rider loft: the lifts wouldn’t take them where they wanted to go so long as the carrier core was crashed, and the rules wouldn’t let you do miner-tricks, not on Porey’s ship, he had that by experience. You slogged it the hard way, and expected sore arms.

  Ship’s officer was ahead, check-in point. “Welcome aboard,” they got; and a copy apiece of the ship’s internal regs; and the standard information on alcohol, volatiles, explosives, electronics, and live animals or plants.

  “Inner perimeter take-hold for power up...” rang out on the speakers—inner perimeter didn’t mean them; which he knew, but not everyone seemed sure of on the instant; and the petty officer said, “Core’s going to engage for you. You can take the lift, captain’s compliments.”

  Captain’s compliments. He took a breath, exchanged glances with his crew, thinking, Bloody hell... because extravagant gestures from Porey were highly suspect. The man liked causing pain: he’d met what he’d taken for examples of the type, but cheap talent, compared with Porey’s position and intelligence and potential. He didn’t want to be on this ship, he didn’t want to be under Porey’s command, even feeling as he did now that Porey was a competent commander—he knew in his mind that they were aboard for security reasons, not because of the test; and they weren’t mission candidates, he’d said as much to his crew in the privacy of their quarters, but the way this was starting out, this move on Percy’s part—was Porey in games mode. You bet your life on your nerves and your skill, and they had Porey jinking like this to start with, yanking them out, putting UDC into the barracks when he damned well knew they were worried about UDC security? A dozen guys with combat nerves, trained to deal with this kind of thing, and what in hell was Porey up to, making maneuvers on the ones trying to make his program work?

  Snake, he thought as he punched the lift call. It’s politics, it’s damned, stinking politics, that’s what it smells like— he’s afraid I’ll talk, he wants me where he can control com, where I can have another accident if it comes to that— man’ll do anything, nothing in him you can get hold of, nothing gets to his eyes except when people squirm—he enjoyed it this morning, when he knew he’d got a hit in, and I hadn’t done anything, he’s that kind...

  The siren blasted the thirty-second warning. Surreal sound, one he’d heard a handful of times in his life, when he’d ridden out from the Belt.

  “Helluva surprise,” Almarshad muttered. “Nobody sets foot on this carrier but the commander’s own staff, what any of us have heard, not even the lieutenant. Don’t they trust each other or what?”

  Almarshad wasn’t thinking about surveillance. Wilson wasn’t, either, who said, “Wish the lieutenant was going,” as if Porey wouldn’t eavesdrop. Dekker felt a cold fear, of a sudden, that not all of them might come back down this particular lift again. Mitch’s crew and Almarshad’s: the mission team and the backup, that was the order of things he could see, and he had a sudden claustrophobic sense he couldn’t go through with this, couldn’t watch this, couldn’t stand another watch in mission control while something went wrong...

  The deck vibrated with the engagement of the core. The lift door opened to let them in.

  Motion instead of thinking—a moment of dumping thoughts and negotiating the door, null-g. He got himself and his crew and their baggage in with two other teams, grabbed the take-hold in the corner next to the lift controls and stared at the panel, read the instruction and warning stickers on monofocus and didn’t blink, because he could lose himself right now, lose where he was, and when this was, and what he had to do...

  G increasing. “Hold on,” he said, as the indicator approached the loft exit. The car hit the interface, jolted into lock with the personnel cylinder. The door opened...

  Wood and sleek plastic. Carpeted bum-deck...

  Looked like the Shepherd club on R2. Like exec offices.

  “My Gawd,” Meg breathed at his back. “Is this us or Porey’s cabin?”

  “It’s us,” he said in shock, “it’s evidently us.”

  Wasn’t real wood, it was synth, but it was good synth. There was a tended bar, an orderly with trays of food and null-capped liquor—there were more orderlies to take their duffles and carry them away...

  “Shee-it,” came from Sal. And Ben:

  “Class stuff, here.”

  Reality was completely slipping on him. He gave up his baggage to the orderly who caught a look at his nametag and took the duffle away—no wide spaces, the whole huge loft was diced up into safer, smaller spaces, by what he could see from his vantage; it hadn’t been like this the last time
he’d been aboard. Bare girders on the ECS5—no paneling, no carpet, no interior walls and no orderly with’] cheese and crackers and margaritas and martinis. The Shep- J herds were right in their element: Mitch said, “All right,” and moved right in on the bar; and Ben didn’t blink, Ben had been living the soft life on Sol One; Meg and Sal had been with the Shepherds—

  But he hadn’t. This wasn’t real. Not for him. It wasn’t ever supposed to be for him. . . there were people who had luxuries and people who didn’t have, by some rule of the universe, and he couldn’t see himself in a place like this...

  “As you were.” Porey’s voice, deep and live. He looked around at the outer-corridor entry, as the commander walked in. Porey strolled past Mitch to the bar and picked up a cheese and cracker, popped it in his mouth. Nobody moved. Nobody thought to salute. It was too bizarre, watching Porey walk a tour of the very quiet area.

  “We had a problem. We still have a problem, gentlemen. Ladies. We have sims down—again. We have one of our best teams down—again. This wasn’t your fault. Fixing it, unfortunately, is your responsibility. Seeing you have time and opportunity to focus on the job at hand—is mine. I’ve pulled you out here, and I am pulling this carrier out of station. Our final Hellburner prototype is mated to the frame, we’re proceeding with deliberate speed, we’ve advised the necessary powers that there will be a test, and we are, frankly, using the time to make our final selection. Three units will be using traditional lab sims, which we can manage aboard this ship, and using sims in the actual prototype, daily, shift after shift. Mr. Dekker’s unit will be using something different in addition, which we are watching and evaluating. Selection will be solely on the basis of scores and medical evaluations.