Mavericks

by Craig Alanson

  “You, uh, took like, a half-second nap?”

  “Half-second in meatsack time, four hours in Skippy time.”

  “Wait, you really took a nap? I thought you never slept?” There were things about Skippy that were different after he killed the worm and rebuilt himself, and I did not yet know everything that had changed.

  “I do not sleep the way monkeys do, what I did was sort of rearranging my sock drawers, tidying up data storage that got cluttered while I was concentrating on the bots. It was very refreshing. Also, I didn’t drool on myself the way you do when you sleep.”

  “I don’t-” I gave up, there is no point to arguing with a beer can. “Whatever. Whoo-hoo,” I gave him an unenthusiastic verbal slow clap. “We have control of that ship. We still don’t know where those damned Keepers are.”

  “Yes we do, Joe. I dug that data out of the Spirit’s databanks like, an hour ago.”

  “An hour ago? Why the hell didn’t you tell me about-”

  “Take a chill pill, Joey. The Keepers were, as I suspected, loaded aboard two dropships that left the ship before it crossed the path of the meteor shower. The ship has a very rough location of the dropships, but those craft were allowed to maneuver independently once they got inside the cluster of meteors. They have maintained strict communications silence and are using stealth technology that is quite advanced for the Kristang, I suspect the Bosphuraq loaned some upgrades to them. I have had four missiles performing a grid search for the dropships and estimate seventy three percent of the target area has been cleared so far. The schedule calls for the Keepers to be released in their aeroshells sixteen hours from now. We have-uh! Got one! Just detected one dropship. That’s got to be one of our targets, unless some other species just happens to be hiding a stealthed dropship in that cluster of meteors. Give me a minute.”

  It was twenty seven minutes, not one, but I didn’t argue with the beer can.

  “Contact!” Skippy exulted. “Got them, right where I expected! Damn, am I good, or am I good? Scratch that, I am the best, baby! Who da man? I’m da man!”

  “You are unquestionably Da Man, Skippy. Please, Oh Greatest of Great Ones, graciously tell us what the hell it is you found?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah, sorry, kind of got wrapped up in the moment. A pair of stealthed dropships, Joe, tucked inside the cluster of comet debris that will rain down on southern Lemuria as a meteor shower in three days. What I do not see are aeroshells, which tells me the Keepers have not yet deployed. They must still be inside the dropships.”

  “Outstanding,” I clapped my hands together happily. “That makes for an easier targeting solution. Colonel Chang, lock two missiles on-”

  “Whoa! Whoa there, Joe. What are you doing?” Skippy interrupted.

  “I’m going to blow those idiot Keepers to hell, Skippy, and end the threat to Paradise. Why the hell else do you think we were looking for them? Oh, shit,” I slapped my forehead. “Unless hitting them with a missile right now will cause their infected body parts to rain down all over Paradise?” Damn it, I am a moron. That is a question I should have asked Skippy way before we located those dropships.

  “No, Joe, our missile warheads are sufficiently powerful to turn the contents of those dropships into subatomic particles, although we will need to coordinate their detonation to within a nanosecond of each other. The reason I stopped you is we should not just do the simple dumb guy thing and blow shit up.”

  “I like blowing shit up, Skippy. Especially in situations like this. These Keeper losers are just begging to get blown up.”

  “Although karma and the universe agree with your assessment of the proper fate for those Keeper idiots, it is not that simple. Joe, think for change, please. The Kristang still possess their research and the pathogen. They can use it later, all they really need to do is threaten to use it later. Humans on Paradise will be treated with suspicion as potential deadly threats, until the Ruhar have a vaccine and a cure against the pathogen. I can’t develop a vaccine or cure from the data Colonel Perkins collected, there isn’t enough detail in that data. We need samples, Joe, samples and subjects to test my potential cures on.”

  “Oh, crap. We need to take those infected Keepers alive? We need to rescue them?”

  “Yes, at least some of them, Joe. More would be better than less, obviously.”

  “Mister Skippy,” Major Smythe asked eagerly, having appeared behind my chair as if by magic. Damn, did he have a magic trouble predictor that told him when the Merry Band of Pirates would run into a problem that required his help? “Can I assume we need to board and seize two stealthed dropships?”

  “Yes, and somehow you need to do it without that destroyer discovering somebody took control of those dropships, or the destroyer could cause trouble for us. We need to keep quiet until we have full control of both dropships and we are certain the Keepers are aboard and infected, so I can get useful samples. Any sort of ruckus out here will attract a dozen Ruhar ships and blow the whole operation.”

  “Sounds like we need a stealthy spaceborne assault,” no amount of British reserve could keep the grin off Smythe’s face. “Colonel Bishop, my team will plan the assault, and I will recommend-”

  “No, Major,” I cut him off. “You can plan a spaceborne assault, but you do not get a vote on whether the op is a ‘Go’ or not.”

  “Sir?” He looked genuinely surprised and maybe a little hurt.

  “I know you SAS guys by now. If there is a choice between ‘do crazy shit’ and ‘not do crazy shit’, you will vote for ‘do crazy shit’ every time.”

  “Oh,” he chuckled, relieved to understand I was not actually mad at him.

  “Ha!” Skippy interjected. “Joe, with some of the wild stuff you have done, you should not complain about someone else’s enthusiasm for nutcase stunts.”

  “Skippy, it may be true that I have a timeshare in Crazytown, but Major Smythe is the mayor of Crazyland.”

  “That is why we are out here, Colonel,” Smythe observed with dry humor.

  “If you had wanted tea and crumpets in the parlor, you could have stayed home?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, you can plan an assault, but we’ll take it as a given that you are in favor of a ‘Go’ order. Well?” I made a shooing motion with one hand. “Get on with it, then, we don’t have much time.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he replied eagerly, spun crisply on his heels and strode off down the passageway.

  “Why do I have the feeling I will very much not like whatever plan he thinks up?” I asked to no one in particular.

  Skippy answered for me. “Because, Major Smythe’s plan will not include little Joey tagging along as a mascot. You should stay here, right here, where you can’t do any harm. Not much harm, anyway, because I will be here to keep you out of trouble.”

  While Smythe’s team dreamed up crazy plans, Skippy gathered all the data he could get about those dropships. “Ok, I’m done analyzing both of them. Can’t get any more data from out here, without alerting the Kristang that someone is watching them.”

  “Outstanding! Can you do your magical creepy bot thing to take over those dropships. Wait!” I held up a hand. “Are all the Keepers aboard those two dropships? The Kristang didn’t leave a few on the ship to use later, in case something went wrong?”

  “No Keepers aboard the ship, Joe, the Kristang have all their eggs in two baskets for this operation. The answer is no, I can’t take control of the dropships the way I did with the ship. The critical systems of a dropship are all inside the cabin, and someone would surely see bots crawling around. Ironically, I can’t take control of the dropships because their technology is so crude. That sucks, but it is what it is. There are some minor tricks I can play, but for the major part of the operation, you monkeys will have to do this the hard way.”

  “Oh, crap,” I groaned. “Major Smythe,” I pinged him over the intercom but his voice came from behind my chair.

  “Here, Sir,” he announced
with what to the British might be considered unseemly eagerness. And he was wearing a freshly-pressed uniform, it looked like I could slice open my hand on the crease of his trousers. When the hell had he changed into a new uni?

  “I suppose now you and your team are up to bat.” The British did not play baseball, but they did play cricket, and ‘up to bat’ was a term they understood. While Skippy gathering data about the pair of dropships, Smythe had developed a plan to secure the Keepers and bring them back to the Flying Dutchman.

  “Permission to, as you said, ‘Do crazy shit’, Sir?” His ear-to-ear grin was definitely unseemly, and I was glad to see it.

  I snapped a salute to him, though we generally dispensed with salutes aboard the ship. “Permission for crazy shit granted, Major. Under one condition.”

  “What’s that, Colonel?” He asked, a bit of his grin having slipped.

  “That you not have too much fun.”

  “We will do our best to be thoroughly miserable about it, Sir.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Skippy was right, Smythe’s assault plan did not include me going with him, and that was not a shock to me. My proper place was in the command chair during an operation, unless for some reason Skippy had needed to go with the assault team and he wanted me along in case he needed a ‘monkey-brain’ idea at the last moment.

  Major Smythe and his SpecOps team were suiting up for the operation to board and capture the two stealthed dropships that were carrying the infected Keepers to Paradise, so I went down to the armory to help them get their gear squared away. Ok, no, the team did not need me to do anything, I was really there because I was jealous that I would be stuck aboard the ship while Smythe’s team had all the fun.

  “Hey, Joe,” Skippy piped up in the cheery tone that meant he was up to no good.

  “Oh, crap, Skippy, what is it now?”

  “You say ‘crap’ like you assume this has to be something bad,” he said in a huff.

  “You being bubbly and cheery like that is usually a bad sign for me.”

  “Ha! You are so wrong this time, dumdum. This is nothing but good for you, And really, for the entire galaxy.”

  No way was I getting my hopes up until I knew what he was talking about. “What, did the Maxolhx surrender or something like that?”

  “Way better than that, Joe,” he was so cheery that for a moment I got my hopes up. Then he crushed my hopes like they had fallen into a neutron star. “I have a whole new batch of showtunes ready for your listening enjoyment.”

  “That’s great, Skippy, truly, really great,” I caught the panicked looks from the SpecOps people around me. “But hey, how about you save your batch of bodaciously superduper new show tunes for the next time I am in a spacesuit, falling into the atmosphere of a gas giant or something?”

  “Oh. Sure, Joe, because having me sing new showtunes would be a comfort to you, at a stressful time when you are facing certain and painful death?”

  “Um, I was thinking that having to listen to your showtunes would make the idea of plunging to death in a gas giant sound like sweet release, but let’s go with the comfort thing.”

  “Joe, why are you such an asshole?”

  “Maybe I was dropped on the head as a child?”

  “No, I think that’s just who you are. Ok, smart guy, I was going to treat you to a preview of my latest batch of showtunes-”

  “And now you’re not?” I prepped one hand to exchange a high-five with Major Smythe.

  “No, I am not. That is your loss,” Skippy sniffed.

  “Yes!” Smythe slapped me five, holding back so he didn’t break any bones in my hand. “How did I get so lucky? I was afraid you planned to torture the away team with show tunes during their space dive.” Damn it, I should have known that I had just screwed myself, because the universe hates Joe Bishop.

  “Instead,” Skippy continued as if I had not spoken, “you can be the guinea pigs as I practice my current obsession: arias.”

  “Oh, shit,” my blood ran cold and Smythe glared at me, looking at his hand as if he wanted to take back the high-five. “Arias? You mean, like, opera?”

  “Very good, Joe, I am actually impressed you know what an aria is.”

  “Yeah, it’s when some guy sounds like he’s strangling a cat and it goes on way too long.”

  “Ugh,” he gave an exasperated sigh. “You are such a cretin, Joe. Here. Let me smack you with some culture.”

  “Please don-” But it was too late.

  “For my first effort, the famous tenor aria from Puccini’s opera Turandot, ‘Nessun Dorma’, or ‘None shall sleep’.” He then launched into a tune that I’m sure everyone has heard at some point in their lives, whether they wanted to or not. Except most people heard the version sung by Pavarotti or maybe it was Caruso or, whatever, some guy on stage in a dark suit. That was not what we heard from Skippy’s awful, screeching, warbling off-key rendition. “Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, la Principessa, nella tua fredda stanza-”

  “Sir,” Smythe looked at me, deadly serious, “whatever you have to do, make it stop.”

  “I’m trying, Major,” I responded lamely. “I don’t know what-”

  “We have a whole cargo bay full of nukes,” Smythe added and several people nodded. With Smythe’s reserved British sense of humor, I didn’t know if he was joking or not.

  “If he won’t stop, I’ll throw myself out an airlock,” Williams was now glaring at me.

  “Uh-” I gave him a goofy smile while trying to think. Meanwhile, Skippy continued to torment us, wrapping up to a big dramatic finish.

  “Tramontate, stelle! All’alba vincero! Vincero! VINCEROOOOOO!” Then, “Thank you, thank you, you have been a wonderful audience. No autographs, please.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I exploded with relief, “it’s over.”

  “What? Come on, Joe, I was just getting warmed up.”

  “Crap, Skippy, if we could weaponize your singing, we could conquer the galaxy in like, a week. Please, please for the love of God, no more opera like that.”

  “Hmmph. Damn, I try to raise your cultural standards and all you give me is grief about it. Ok, how about some selections from Kristang opera?”

  That made my eyes bulge out of my head. “The Kristang like opera?”

  “Of course they do, dumdum. You already knew they love poetry. Those hateful lizards just love their operas, especially the tragic kind. Particularly when the tragedy happens to someone else, hee hee. Hey, here’s one that-”

  “Skippy, please, I’m begging you, no lizard opera.”

  “How about Klingon opera?”

  “Not that either,” I hastened to say, not knowing whether he was joking or not.

  “Joe, this much talent can’t be contained forever,” Skippy warned.

  “Oh bullocks,” Smythe sighed. “Mister Skippy, could you save your remarkable singing talent for the next time we have a prisoner to interrogate, like that Maxolhx? Sir,” he turned to me, “special operations troops are trained to resist interrogation. I know one of the American outfits uses a recording of the poem ‘Boots’ by Rudyard Kipling, because it is bloody awful and monotonous and goes on forever; it is impossible to ignore. The SAS uses similar tactics, but nothing compares to your beer can singing opera.”

  “I hear you, Major,” I felt like a small boy being reprimanded by a schoolmaster, and I noticed he referred to Skippy as my beer can.

  “Hey!” Skippy was insulted. “Have you ever heard Joe sing? His voice is terrible.”

  “My voice is not that bad.”

  “Oh really?” The beer can asked with icy sarcasm. “How come you never participate on karaoke night?”

  “Because I, uh, because-”

  “Come on, Joe, sing something for us, Show your incredible talent.”

  He pissed me off enough that I launched into a song I just made up. “Some enchanted morning, you might see a beer can, you might see a beer can, upon a dusty shelf. And somehow you know, you know e
ven then, that you will regret it, again and again. No one can explain it, Skippy doesn’t try. Beer cans are assholes, no point asking why. Once you have found Skip, run far awaaaaay!” My voice cracked on that last part.

  “Oh, Joe,” Skippy’s avatar gave me a thoroughly disgusted ironic slow clap, “that was truly freakin’ hilarious.”

  He was being sarcastic, but Smythe’s team gave me a thunderous standing ovation and drowned out the beer can.

  His avatar waved a hand in exasperation. “Oh, shut up.” And the avatar winked out.

  Man, if the crew applauded my terrible singing, they really went wild when Skippy disappeared. “Encore! Encore!” The crowd shouted.

  While Smythe’s team were on their long spacedive to board and capture the stealthed dropships, I had nothing to do, so I was in my office catching up on paperwork. All along, I was supposed to complete crew evaluation reports and now that we could potentially soon be on our way back to Earth, I had a mountain of forms to fill in. The next one in my stack was Gunnery Sergeant Margaret Adams and I checked the appropriate boxes at the top, then I froze. What the hell would I say about Adams? What could I say? Whatever I put in that evaluation file, how could I be sure I was being fair to her, and being fair to everyone else in the crew? A commander can’t play favorites and let his personal feelings affect his—

  Part of her file caught my eye. It was available only to me, as it was the official assessment by psychologists assigned by Marine Corps and UNEF Command to review her mental and emotional fitness for duty, after we returned from our first mission. Another assessment had been conducted after we returned from our second mission. I had been forced to talk with Army headshrinkers both times, there was nothing unusual about that, the entire crew went through something similar. So far, I had not snuck a peek at anyone’s psych eval records, all I cared about was they had been officially cleared for duty.

  But I had to admit Adams was different. I had not looked at her file because I did not want to know what was inside her head, and my reasons for that went beyond respecting her privacy. Reading her file, getting in her head like that, was too intimate for me. We had to keep our relationship strictly professional and if that was the way it had to be, I did not want to be tempted into taking any steps toward intimacy when we were stuck aboard a ship for months or years.