Taken aback, the tall swordsman stared down at the diminutive recruit the top of whose head failed to rise within thirty centimeters of the crown of his own. His innate courtesy for the moment outweighing his instant misgivings, the redhead thrust out a hand. The force of his new associate's grip shocked him.
Intuitively sensing the reluctance with which the brawny warrior received the order, Wong braced for a trial by fire.
Signe's next words centered her listeners' full attention on herself. "Gentlemen, this afternoon we'll begin the task of familiarizing ourselves with every aspect of this ship: its life-support system, engineering, board functions, propulsive system, fuel requirements, and the like. Concentrate on learning whatever your area of expertise best enables you to grasp. You'll take notes, and submit a written report. Eric, I'll consult with you in Cabin One at this time." That choice reflected a realization that the cabin so designated belonged by right of long tradition to the captain, who used it both as quarters and private office.
Gesturing her senior officer into the only chair, Signe waited while Eric detached its magnetic inserts from the deck, set it on its legs, and seated himself. Dropping to the edge of a bunk to sit erect, her lithe body evincing imperfectly concealed eagerness to begin her new venture, the Commander narrowly regarded her most trusted advisor. Eric's still not wholly convinced that our taking the war to space constitutes a workable idea , she concluded accurately. Exquisite torment couldn't drag that admission out of him, though. Amusement rose out of deep affection. Eric, old friend, what an asset you are! she silently commended the kinsman studying her as minutely as she had scrutinized him. How much I owe you!
Now what in hell prompted her to issue those orders? Eric fumed inwardly, his mind racing. Strategist, Signe, no doubt about that, but what I see shaping up hints at rank overconfidence. Spacers, she calls us! As if that wish were reality! This damned ship's no rock-hopper, girl.
The twin worlds of Columbia lie a vast distance from here, across interworld space. We'll require both the expertise and the fuel capacity to fly back and forth between two aggregations of rocks that share with Dyson a single orbit around the gas giant. We'll need to program trajectories with flawless precision, so as to hurtle at unimaginable velocities through the vast emptiness separating one group leading, and one trailing a planetoid of formidable size: an uninhabitable moon shrouded in noxious atmosphere. Our battleground will consist of two dissimilar collections of inhospitable bodies clustered around Dyson's L-4 and L-5 libration points: stable areas where errant asteroids eons ago found a refuge.
What irony! That's exactly what our ancestors thought they'd discovered, when they lifted the Gaea, fled Columbia, and landed here to start a separate colony almost an Earthcentury and a half ago. Spacers. My aching old wounds, what an insult to the real article! And that's what we'll be fighting! Experienced, highly trained, career-conscious military spacer-fighters as good with a blade as the Columbian master who thirty Earthyears ago made a swordsman out of me! Damn!
"Well, Eric," the Commander remarked briskly, no hint of her thoughts surfacing on her face, any more than Eric's showed on his, "so far, so good. We've acquired a ship armed with the irreproducible weaponry, and we'll capture more. I'll schedule training sessions, during which we'll learn to use that gear, and to operate ship and lifeboats. Meanwhile, we need to look ahead--waste no time. I expect it wouldn't be too soon to think about reorganizing our force along lines better suited to a corps of spacers."
Eyes blue as Signe's own widened for a millisecond. She's deadly serious! Spacers! A minuscule pause separated outraged thought from reasoned response. "We might as well," Eric agreed warily. "That would channel their minds into new grooves right from the start. If we transform ourselves, we're ahead. If we don't, it won't matter how we're organized." Those of us surviving the experiment, the veteran mentally qualified his statement.
"Columbian captains assigned a vessel traditionally enjoy the right to select their lieutenants, do they not? Within certain bounds?"
"They do. Welding the crew of a military ship into an effective fighting unit takes special talents. Isolating twelve people for fourweeks at a time within a space as cramped as this vessel invites problems. Any conflicts of personality that occur swiftly intensify. A potential exists for dangerous, overt expressions of hostility, unless strong bonding unites people who see themselves as comrades bound by ties closer than those uniting families. Forging such bonds challenges the quality of a captain's leadership to the utmost. He needs a second officer he knows well and trusts implicitly.
"The tradition of letting him appoint his lieutenant traces its origin to the customs of the mercenary fighters from whom the Columbians descend. The designations of rank currently in use, and the system of seniority prevailing in Columbia, also derive from those customs. Other inherited usages preserved within the present Columbian military structure likewise exist to reinforce the bonds uniting comrades serving aboard ships. Even bastards like Norman recognize the benefits to be gained in fostering such ties among spacer-fighters."
"Our people will fit naturally into such relationships," Signe asserted vehemently. "I'll begin by asking each of my captains to select a lieutenant, and then decide on crews. We'll assign the married couples and any strongly bonded twosome of same-sex lovers, in pairs, as we do now in companies ashore. I'll enlist your help in assigning crews. We'll strive towards minimizing any potential for conflicts of personality--aim for groupings that will shake down quickly into smoothly functioning units."
"I'll devote considerable thought to the business of selecting crews." Frowning, Eric refrained from blurting out his immediate conclusion: the likelihood of their succeeding in making off with more ships equaled that of Norman's experiencing a burst of remorse sufficient to prompt him to return the vessels wrenched out of the hands of the Gaeans at the outset of the invasion.
Suppressing a chuckle, Signe replied serenely, "Do that, Eric. So will I. Now, let's review the information our team just gleaned."
For the ensuing hour, the Commander tramped through the interior of the vessel, gauging what inessentials could be stripped away without loss of function, abstracting facts from her men's brains as soon as they assimilated them, weighing choices, sifting data, integrating possibilities with those she already envisioned. Long-range ideas for attaining a fleet steadily assumed clearer form in the strategist's mind.
Five days passed before Signe perfected her plan. Standing before the eight men whose reports she had all but memorized, she exerted herself to the utmost to win their wholehearted support.
"Gentlemen. Now that we've acquainted ourselves intimately with the structure and function of our lone vessel, I challenge you to initiate a daring venture. On the farthest locks of this habitat rest the shattered shells of two Earth-armed military ships we sabotaged on the locks. Norman abandoned those hulks as useless. He took pains not to leave us a single spare component for the board of such a vessel, let alone any major structural assemblies. The sole plant our government operated, which once produced spare parts, our archfoe looted, and then destroyed, ten Earthyears ago--after executing all the staff-members who fell into his hands."
Hatred radiated from the men hanging on Signe's words.
"Terence recently rounded up a few experts who escaped Norman's massacre," she informed them evenly. "I propose that we enlist the aid of those people, and the body of other specialists, including life-support engineers, that Terence is assembling. As soon as that force integrates with the crew recruited by Morgan's and Sean's family, we'll dismantle sections of the functioning vessel you've studied minutely, to serve as patterns. We'll copy those--build parts, which we'll use to create one serviceable ship from the two wrecks. Once we finish that task, we'll reassemble the dismantled vessel, and spray both with Gaeanite, as we did the drone. Equipped with two undetectable warships, we'll launch lightflash strikes, gentlemen--and capture a fleet."
Passion blazed from eyes of pures
t blue. Challenge radiated from a hard-muscled, taut body. Scanning eight faces in turn, Signe beheld shock melt into wonder. Moments later, she saw excitement replace both emotions.
In an unconscious, habitual gesture, Morgan ran a hand through his thatch of auburn hair to stand it on end. His grin went straight to the Commander's heart. "Mobile treasures, our ships will be, Signe! Beyond price. Engines of death cloaked in the wealth of an age…of a world. Invisible; deadly. Your idea will work, providing our skill proves equal to the task."
"We'll hone our skill until it serves." Inflexible determination freighted the deep voice of the mechanical expert who realized with daunting clarity the degree to which the visionary's proposal would tax his ingenuity.
Directing a penetrating glance at the scarred warrior, Signe announced, "Conor, you'll assume the responsibility of producing two space-able vessels. Morgan, you'll superintend the application of the Gaeanite. Yuri, you'll draw up specifications, and strip out of each ship every single non-essential panel in the living quarters. See if you can come up with a means of increasing the fuel-storage capacity, even though I realize that goal will prove tricky to meet, given the fine-tuned balance necessary to allow rotation of the vertical torus. You'll then redesign the interior to accommodate an assault force of thirty-two people. You'll employ your expertise with computers, Wong, but during part of every day, you and I'll work at training an assault force of sixty people to withstand a brutal acceleration permitting an increased velocity during each transit to Columbia."
Eagerness shone from the eyes of the newly recruited martial artist, as he nodded.
"I'll also instruct all of you in the art of flying a lifeboat, once I perfect my own ability." Even as she couched that directive in a tone breathing assurance, Signe saw dismay flicker across more than one face. "We've no choice, gentlemen, but to acquire that utterly essential skill, and to master techniques for teaching it in our turn," she warned in a tone that brooked no argument. "I've perfect confidence in the daring of each and every one of you."
If fear clenched the guts of the listeners, they concealed that response. Scanning the resolute faces, Signe let her pride in her officers show. "Well. We've a grueling stretch of work ahead of us. Rest assured that I appreciate your willingness to take on the challenge I've set you."
So began the monumental endeavor that would change the course of history in the star-system. Having seen the basic work begun, Signe turned her mind to reviewing the lessons Dahl had so unwillingly given her.
Day after day, the warrior harnessed herself into the couch of a lifeboat she docked on a lock above a habitat cleared of personnel. Hurtling into the void, she pushed both herself and the small craft to the utmost limits of capability. The ineffable sense of freedom experienced on her first flight grew in magnitude, as the initiate gained in proficiency. The ever-present danger served only to exhilarate her. She began to think of the boat as an extension of herself--to feel a cybernetic oneness with a machine as responsive to the commands of her brain as was her own lithe body.
Morgan initially pressed Signe to take him along, but met with a flat refusal. "I'll risk no life but my own," she declared in a tone that admitted of no argument. "When I feel I've mastered the art, I'll teach my officers. Until then, I don't need company if I die vaporized--much as I appreciate your concern."
The vivid smile accompanying that adamant declaration touched the auburn-haired Captain without allaying his fear in the least degree. No subsequent confident smile relaxed the knot that constricted Morgan's gut every time he watched the daring novice head for the lock. The others made no attempt to dissuade her, knowing her as they did. They merely wished her luck, and wove one more strand into the fabric of the legend.
The day arrived when Signe judged herself ready. Having summoned Morgan from his improvised metal shop, she handed him a supposedly improved variety of pill, informed him that he rated the dubious distinction of serving as her first pupil, and preceded him into the lifeboat.
More afraid of failing the Commander he so fervently admired than of dying with her, the limber swordsman strapped into the couch a body as fluidly graceful as it was robust. Resolutely, he braced for an ordeal. If Signe can learn this skill, I can, he resolved stoutly. Stealing a sidelong glance at the woman engaged in fastening her harness, the warrior-captain grew acutely conscious of the femininity of his companion--as if the sudden disappearance of that shapely body inside an obscuring cocoon of fluid-filled fabric rendered the lingering image sharper.
Shame scalded the archetypical Gaean. Control yourself , the man savagely adjured his alter ego. Channel your thoughts onto this challenge facing you . A mind schooled from early childhood to exert rigid control over all physical appetites instantly, automatically responded. The alluring visualization vanished, as Morgan focused his faculties solely on the task at hand.
"We lack the simulators the Columbians use to train operators," Signe cautioned her pupil. "I'll be passing on what I've learned, as best I can. If you see a way that I could improve my teaching technique, don't hesitate to tell me. I'm relying on you to help me devise a standard course of instruction."
Let's hope I don't pull some boner that kills us both! That grim but unspoken response accompanied a tightening of Morgan's gut.
As her student's face set into determined lines, Signe hastened to reassure him. "This first lesson I teach right here on the lock. Once you've mastered it, I'll take us for a short flight as a demonstration. You'll remain a passenger, so relax, Morgan."
On beholding a certain disappointment mingle with relief, the instructor hid the amusement reinforcing her profound admiration of the warrior whose ability to keep a cool head in the most appalling crisis prompted her to take him on as her first pupil. For the next ninety minutes, she put him through a grueling preparatory exercise.
Liftoff produced in the neophyte visible evidence of inner distress produced by the severity of the motions, but the instructor detected no hint of panic. Morgan habitually conceals any fear racking him , she acknowledged approvingly, stealing an occasional quick look at the pale, intent face of her companion. The beginner listened, answered her questions promptly and accurately, and observed her actions. Satisfied that he had assimilated all she presented, Signe soared far into the void, and let him acquire a feel for handling the craft. "Flying it out here isn't hard," she remarked in a voice kept studiously casual. "It's docking the boat, or lifting off the mothership, that's tricky--or maneuvering close to the surface of a planetoid. Just don't turn too sharply. Harness or no harness, doing so could black us both out."
"I believe you."
"Your insides appear to be staying calm."
"I've got the rebellion quashed…I think."
"Ignore the vid. The scanning screens offer a far more detailed view of our surroundings."
"I'm taking care to watch only the scanning screens."
"That disorientation from seeing the stars sweep across the vid fades after a time."
A frowning glance projecting patent disbelief constituted Morgan's only response to that pronouncement.
At length Signe docked the boat on the lock, providing a running commentary on the technique as she employed it. "We'll eat lunch, absorb another pill, and come back for another lesson, if you think your gut will stand it," she challenged the trainee, noting the droplets beading the forehead to which discrete, short, uneven points of auburn hair clung damply, the pallor visible in cheeks kept free of any shadow of beard, the ruddy eyebrows creased now into a frown, the green eyes combatively meeting her own, the cleft chin jutting just a bit, below the wide mouth set in a tight line.
"Rebellious gut be damned. I'll be ready when you are!" The frown melted into a singularly engaging grin as Morgan accepted the challenge.
On some subliminal level, the feminine observer reacted to dashing, vigorous, youthful masculinity augmented by charm innate rather than studiously cultivated, but the conscious mind of the warrior-woman shut out the
implications of that right-brain, nonverbal impression. Signe saw all she ever allowed herself to see: a brother.
By the end of a rough initiation, the apprentice felt that he had made solid gains. Tautness in the muscles of his jaw, and lines tightening the corners of his mouth, testified to strain.
"Take two hours off, and relax," the Commander urged in a tone that her captain knew to constitute an order. "Sean can handle the chores at the ships."
Five days later, Morgan managed a successful solo flight. "You get to lift on your own now, to practice, as I did," his instructor informed him, smiling radiantly. "I'll find it easier to teach my next trainee, thanks to your welcome, frank comments on my technique."
"You're a born teacher, Signe."
"A better one at this, now."
Morgan's imperturbability, combined with his ability to express himself succinctly in graphic Earth-Standard, had indeed served to improve the course Signe strove to develop. Brushing the edge of disaster together, the two comrades testing untried teaching techniques had learned from each narrow escape. The novice sensed his mentor's ebullient joy in flight. Even as he grew to be a daring and proficient operator, he fell short of following Signe into the rarefied mental heights he knew she reached. That realization failed to daunt him. As long as he qualified to battle the Columbians in this new element, the redheaded warrior rested content with his own progress.
Satisfied with her evolving skill as an instructor, Signe took on new pupils. To her relief, Conor learned easily despite his having passed his fifty-first Earthyear. His habitual, unflappable calm, she well knew, disguised the lightflash swiftness of his reflexes. Possessed of a liberal endowment of sensitivity, she realized that since the day three fourweeks earlier, when the beloved wife who had fought at his side all through the surface war fell in battle before Conor's eyes, death ceased to hold any terror for the surviving spouse. Danger in the best of times had never fazed the warrior almost as legendary as herself. A mechanical genius, he possessed a mind that automatically attuned itself to the boat. The machine did not exist that could fluster the man. Conor graduated from Signe's course with honors.
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