Bennett cleared his throat. “I presume we’re still in lockdown?”
“More or less,” Abigail said. “Any messages you send will be routed through the asteroid’s signal buffer, so don’t write anything you don’t want the censors to see. We’re too far from any other settlement for real-time communications, for better or worse. I haven't been told what will happen if you do try to break the information embargo, but I don’t think it will be pleasant.”
She stepped inside and opened the wardrobe. “I want all three of you in shipsuits at all times,” she added. Her voice turned faintly sarcastic. “Wear your overalls over them, if you wish, but make sure your masks are easily accessible. You can't breathe outside the hull, as I’m sure you're aware. We don’t want to suddenly have a hull breach, but the way they’re buzzing around outside ...”
“I thought the hull was armoured,” Maddy said.
“Technically, it is,” Abigail said. “But if there’s an accident with a cutting torch, well ...”
She shrugged. “The engineers swear blind that we’ll be ready for departure in eight days,” she said. Her lips quirked, as if she was making a joke. “It was ten days, two days ago. I suggest you spend the time familiarising yourselves with the ship, but stay out of their way. I don’t want any accidents. My insurance won’t stand it.”
“Understood, Captain,” Alan said. Perhaps it would be better to stay in the cabin. A datapad full of eBooks or videos would be better company than Bennett. And having a datapad would make up for the cramped compartment. There was no way Bennett and himself could dress simultaneously. “Is there anything else we ought to know?”
“Two things,” Abigail said. She stepped back outside the cabin, meeting his eyes. “First, most of my crew are civilian volunteers. They might be being paid hazard rates, but they’re not naval personnel in anything ... even in name. Do not treat them as slaves. You’ll find they’re good at their jobs, but they’re not so good at discipline.”
“I have never treated anyone like a slave,” Alan said.
“Goody,” Abigail said. “Second, then. The files weren't too clear on what you actually did to earn yourselves a jail sentence. I have been assured that none of you pose a serious risk to my crew, but I have been given no way to judge that for myself. I have not shared what little I know about your pasts with my crew, just to ensure they don’t allow it to affect their work - and, frankly, I’m not sure that was wise.”
She kept her eyes firmly fixed on his. “I will not tolerate anything that smacks of criminal behaviour,” she warned him. “From any of you - starfighter pilots as well as support crews. And if I get a single hint that you’re going back to your old ways, you will be pitched out of the airlock. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” Alan said, flatly.
It was hard, so hard, not to shake his head in disbelief. He was meant to work with this woman? He didn't really blame Abigail for being concerned, not when she didn't know what he’d actually done, but it would sour their relationship completely. Perhaps he should tell her the truth. Or Maddy should tell Abigail about her crimes. The RockRats would enjoy the story of an over-promoted aristocratic pig being taken for a ride by someone he’d considered nothing more than arm candy. They might even side with Maddy when they found out the truth.
“Get into your shipsuits,” Abigail ordered. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Bennett said, once they were inside the tiny cabin. “I like her.”
Alan snorted. “She thinks you’re a criminal too.”
Bennett laughed. “I have ID I can show her, if necessary,” he said. “You do realise she’s married?”
“No,” Alan said.
“Four husbands, five wives,” Bennett said. “Group-marriages are not uncommon in the belt, as you know. Four of them stay in their warren, looking after the younger children, while the remaining adults go out to bring home the bacon. The older children are already moving into adulthood. Captain Harrison has two children, both serving on this ship.”
Alan shrugged as he stripped off his tunic and reached for the shipsuit. It was a naval design, as ugly and uncomfortable as he remembered. Wearing it was like wearing a second skin, but he knew he’d be glad of it if there was a hull breach. It wouldn't provide quite as much protection as a normal spacesuit, yet it might just make the difference between life or death.
As long as you’re close to a shelter or emergency supplies, he thought, remembering his instructor’s warnings. The man had put the cadets through hell, but they'd known it was necessary. If you’re too far from either, take advantage of the last few seconds to bend over and kiss your arse goodbye.
“Tiny shower too,” Bennett said. “No room to bend over if you drop the soap.”
“How fortunate,” Alan said, crossly. He was getting tired of Bennett constantly poking and prodding to see what would draw a reaction. “And these beds were obviously not designed for your enormous bulk.”
Bennett leered, cheerfully. “I suppose I might just break the upper bunk and land on your head,” he said. “That would solve one problem rather nicely, wouldn't it?”
“Get bent,” Alan said. He refused to consider the possibility. Military bunks might be small, but they were designed to take far heavier weights ... weren’t they? This was a civilian ship ... he pushed the thought aside before it could depress him too much. “I’ll be outside.”
“Don’t go wandering off,” Bennett told him. “The Captain will not be pleased.”
Alan nodded and stepped through the hatch. Maddy was waiting for him, wearing her overalls over the shipsuit. It did nothing, this time, to hide the shape of her body. Alan looked away, cursing himself. He’d just have to keep himself under control.
You can always take matters in hand, later, he told himself. You should be used to being watched by now.
Chapter Seven
Abigail hadn't been sure what to expect from the convicted criminals. The belt shunned minor criminals, to the point where they either took their own lives or shipped out somewhere no one had ever heard their name, while major criminals were simply executed and their bodies fed into the recycler. It was rare for a belter criminal to ever earn forgiveness for his crimes, if only because anything the belt considered a crime was serious. It had to involve someone getting hurt or a very good chance of someone getting hurt.
She allowed her gaze to flicker across them as they waited. The red-headed woman looked innocent, but Abigail had been a daughter and then a mother. She wasn't fooled by an act designed to make people overlook the actress. Men could be such fools, at times. A woman who looked weak and helpless would spark either protective or predatory instincts, rather than warning the men to watch their backs. An entire ring of thugs had been busted a year or two ago, on Ceres, for using young women as Judas Goats. They’d picked up wealthy men and lured them into their apartments, where they’d been robbed and drugged by the male thieves. The redhead might not be physically dangerous, but that meant nothing. Abigail would keep an eye on her anyway.
The two men were odder. Lieutenant Bennett was rough and crude - Abigail had no trouble recognising a very dangerous man - but there was something about him that made her feel safe. That puzzled her, more than she cared to admit. She’d had worse vibes - far worse vibes - from men who hadn't looked anything like as dangerous. But then, the belt rarely had time for politeness. It was considered better to say what you meant and deal with the consequences rather than hide behind half-truths and passive-aggressive verbal conflict.
And Commander Campbell was ... odder. Clearly an educated man, but ... weighed down by guilt. Guilt for what, exactly? Abigail cursed, again, whoever it was who’d refused to forward the uncensored files to Tallyman. She wanted - she needed - to know what he'd done. There was something about Campbell - she supposed she’d better get used to thinking of him as Alan, if he was to be her XO - that bothered her. He didn't have the same ... presence ... as Be
nnett, yet there was a sense of violence below the surface. What the hell had he done?
Better find a way to ask him, she told herself. And hope to hell he tells the truth.
“As you can see, the entire upper section has been converted into a maze of living quarters, control centres and a couple of training suites,” she said, as she led them through the corridors. They weren't seeing the ship at her best, but it couldn’t be helped. “There are two sections set aside for the pilots, with twelve bunks in each one. I assume that will be suitable?”
“It won’t be any worse than the quarters on a fleet carrier,” Alan said. His voice held a faint accent that reminded Abigail of one of her distant relatives. “Do you have an exercise compartment?”
“And a gaming room,” Abigail said. “One of my kids is very fond of Sonic the Hedgehog - he downloaded copies of everything from the classical versions to the fifth or sixth VR reboot. You’re welcome to play the games, if you have time.”
“Maybe after I’ve brushed up on starfighter flying,” Alan said. He sounded oddly amused by her words. “Is there enough space for the support crews?”
“Aye,” Abigail said. They stopped outside one of the sleeping quarters. Abigail opened the hatch, allowing them to look inside. “We’re sleeping six to a compartment here - again, it’s not ideal, but it’s the best we can do.”
“I’ve been in worse places,” Alan said.
“Try sleeping in a foxhole sometime, sir,” Bennett told him. “It’s uncomfortable as fuck.”
Abigail glanced at him, puzzled. Lieutenant Bennett was outranked by Commander Campbell, but ... Bennett didn't act like a naval officer. His file had been curiously sparse, too sparse. She wondered, suddenly, if he'd been in the army instead. Or maybe he’d been in a deniable unit and very little had actually been committed to the datafiles. There was no way to know, short of trying to talk him into revealing his past. And she had a feeling that Bennett, for all of his crudeness, actually kept himself under very tight control.
“There are two showers at the rear of each compartment,” Abigail said, dismissing the mystery. She could think about it later. “By the time the crew arrive, the water restrictions should have been lifted. If not ...” - she shrugged - “... they’ll just have to get used to it.”
She led them out the hatch and down the corridor. “There’s no such thing as a secondary bridge on a freighter, so we put the CIC in here,” she explained, as she opened another hatch. “It’s very makeshift, but it should do.”
“I hope so,” Alan said.
Abigail tried to see it through his eyes. A pair of consoles and chairs, a holographic projector ... she’d seen footage of life onboard a fleet carrier. Their Combat Information Centres were immense, with enough space for a couple of dozen staffers. Haddock barely had room for two or three people, unless they were very good friends. She glanced at Maddy, trailing behind the men. Was she close to either of them? Or was this their first meeting? It was impossible to be sure.
“We built as much redundancy as we could into the network,” she told them. “But this ship is still very fragile. A direct hit will be enough to put us out of the battle.”
“Blow us into atoms, you mean,” Alan said. He sat down in one of the chairs and looked around. “Have you tested the systems?”
“We did the basics,” Abigail said. “But actual drills and live-fire exercises ...? No.”
“Something to do then, as soon as we’re ready,” Alan said. “The sooner we figure out the problems, the sooner we can fix them.”
“Yes, sir,” Maddy said.
Abigail kept her thoughts to herself as they walked through the rest of the upper decks, pausing briefly to introduce the newcomers to her crew. Sickbay was a joke, compared to a military facility; there was no trained doctor, merely an autodoc. Abigail and several of her crew had some medical training, but not enough to cope with more than a handful of basic injuries. The life support units were over-engineered, yet they were still going to be pushed to the limit. And Engineering was in complete disarray.
“We think we’ve worked out most of the kinks,” she said, as they headed back to the CIC. “But we have no way to be sure.”
“We’ll find out when we go to work,” Alan assured her. “How many spare parts are we carrying?”
“Not as many as I’d like,” Abigail admitted. “We’re on the list for whatever’s available, but ...”
She gritted her teeth in frustration. On one hand, the Royal Navy had given her a blank cheque; on the other, there just weren't enough supplies to go around. The peacetime navy simply hadn't built up the stockpiles it would need to fight a major war. She hoped some barmy bureaucrat was going to be penalised for that particular balls-up. It would take time, perhaps too much time, to kick-start production to meet wartime requirements. Until then, the Royal Navy was going to be facing all kinds of shortfalls.
“Maybe we can requisition a couple of extra starfighters,” Alan said. “We could turn them into hangar queens if necessary.”
“And you could fly one yourself, sir,” Bennett offered. “We might need you out there.”
“I haven’t flown a starfighter for years,” Alan pointed out. “I’m not even sure what model starfighters we’ll be getting.”
“Better to be out there shooting back,” Bennett said. “Maddy can handle starfighter operations if necessary.”
Abigail cleared her throat. “I trust you to handle such matters yourself,” she said, as they walked into the cramped CIC. “You have authorisation to use the shipboard datanet, but be careful. Make sure you clear anything you want to upload with the engineers first.”
Bennett gave her an odd look. “Is the system that fragile, Captain?”
“Right now, yeah,” Abigail said. “They tore out one of our two datacores and replaced it with an updated version, then spent a day rewriting the programming to convince the newer datacore to talk to the older datacore. I’ve been assured that the command and control system remains intact - and isolated - but I’m not actually sure. Given time, the AIs will bridge the gap permanently ...”
She sighed. AI had never quite lived up to its promise, unless one believed that the AIs actually were intelligent and chose to hide it. Talking to an AI was like talking to a child who never actually learnt from experience, let alone grew up. Learning systems never seemed to make the jump into genuine intelligence. The military was reluctant to allow AIs anywhere near its vessels, pointing out the dangers involved. She was tempted, for once, to think that the military might have a point.
“Again, we’ll work on it,” Alan said. He looked down at the darkened console. “If you don’t mind, we’ll start at once.”
Abigail’s lips twitched. She couldn't complain about his work ethic, she supposed, even though he’d only arrived a couple of hours ago. But she would have urged them to have a nap, if she’d thought they’d take the advice. She had no idea if they’d slept on the shuttle or not, but it couldn't have been very comfortable.
“It is fifteen-hundred-hours now,” she said, glancing at her wristcom. “I ... request ... the pleasure of your company at nineteen-hundred-hours for dinner.”
She watched them, closely. Bennett showed no visible reaction, but both Alan and Maddy looked uncomfortable. What did that mean? No one on the ship, apart from her, knew they’d been in jail. Were they reluctant to meet the rest of the crew? Or were they feeling a little overwhelmed? Abigail could move between crowded asteroids and empty ships without a qualm, but she had a feeling jail would be a little different.
“It will be our pleasure,” Alan said, finally. “We thank you.”
Abigail nodded, then spun on her heel and walked out the hatch. It hissed closed behind her, cutting off the sound. She would have liked to listen to whatever was said, after she left, but she knew it was impossible. Instead, she checked her wristcom’s inbox as she headed down the corridor. Their client was somewhat bemused by how the cargo pallets had arrived at Ceres,
but he was relieved to receive them anyway.
It won’t be long before the truth gets out, Abigail thought. The news corporations might be closely supervised on Earth, but it was a great deal harder to keep spacers from talking to one another and sharing notes. And there was no shortage of hackers ready to spread news - and rumours - through the datanet. And then ... who knows what will happen?
She stopped outside the shuttle hatch and keyed the switch. It opened, revealing the interior of a military-grade shuttlecraft. Abigail guessed that whoever had designed the craft had either been a Royal Marine or a Belter, as the design was ruthlessly practical instead of comfortable. Anson was seated in the cockpit, his fingers dancing over the keyboard. He seemed to be having fun.
Abigail cleared her throat. “What do you make of it?”
The Cruel Stars Page 7