Sharpe shrugged. "I was bound to make chief petty officer someday, sir, with an officer of your caliber mentoring me."
The two bosun mates sharing the gig's cabin grinned.
Paul nodded, keeping his expression serious. "I'm glad you appreciate that, Sheriff. That's why I make sure you get to participate in outstanding training opportunities such as this."
"I thought I had you to thank for drafting me on this mission, sir. Thank you so much. There ain't nothing I'd rather do than chauffeur a bunch of hippies around the solar system."
Paul leaned back against his seat, closing his eyes. "They're not hippies, Sheriff. They're strictly mainstream people who happen to believe in peace, love and understanding."
"I believe in those things, too, sir. And I have some very effective methods for keeping everything peace ful because I understand what it takes."
"You left out love."
"Love? All my love is for the Navy, sir."
Paul opened his eyes and snorted in derision. Sharpe was smiling with exaggerated insincerity. "Sheriff, sometimes I wonder about you. Just help keep an eye on the peaceniks and help keep those cops on the asteroid happy until we leave."
"I'll try, sir, but those cops are probably not going to be happy with us."
"I have every confidence in you, Chief Master at Arms Ivan Sharpe. After all, you're a cop, too. You speak the same language they do."
"Sort of. These are paramilitary, SWAT guys. They're a bit different."
The chief bosun signaled to Paul from the conning station. She wasn't going to let anyone else drive the gig on this run. "All ready, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Yeah, Boats. Let's go."
" Michaelson, this is the gig. Request permission to get underway."
"Permission granted." Paul had no trouble recognizing the XO's voice. Commander Kwan's going to keep a personal eye on this little mission. Great. I'd better pray nothing goes wrong in even the smallest way.
The chief bosun tapped her controls. Paul felt force pushing him to one side as the gig's cradle pushed it gently out and away from the Michaelson. Then he was back in a zero-g state again as the gig drifted out of its dock. Only when it was well clear of the ship did the bosun once again reach for her controls, using thruster firings to bring the gig up and around, then triggering the gig's main drive to propel it forward.
Paul craned his head to see the maneuvering display. The gig's systems were well capable of auto-piloting their way to the Prometheus, but he could tell the bosun was controlling the gig manually. Officially, that was frowned upon except during training for loss of automated control. Unofficially, experienced spacecraft drivers loved to eyeball their way through maneuvers, depending on experience and skill to do everything any automated control system could do, but often with more style.
Paul leaned his head back again and closed his eyes once more. The flight should take about fifteen minutes, and no experienced sailor would let that time go to waste.
"Reveille, reveille, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul popped open his eyes at Sheriff Sharpe's droll wake up call, yawned and then stretched as well as the straps holding him to the seat would permit. "I think I just doubled the amount of sleep I've had in the last twenty-four hours," he remarked.
Sharpe put an expression of exaggerated interest on his face. "Sleep, sir? What would that be, sir? Some privilege restricted to the exalted ranks of junior officers?"
"Sheriff, you sleep more than anyone on board except the supply officer."
"That, sir, is the worst insult I've ever received." Sharpe grinned. "And even if I did, at least I work for a living when I'm awake."
"Is that what you call what you do?" Paul peered at the maneuvering display again. The bulk of the Prometheus loomed close by now. Even as he watched, the bosun hit the main drive again, braking the gig to bring it to a halt relative to the freighter, then using gentle taps on the thrusters to bring the gig close to the freighter's dock. A magnetic grapnel launched from the freighter, slowly heading for gig while its line trailed out behind. Then the grapnel locked onto the gig's mooring plate and the line began very gently retracting, pulling the gig behind it.
The Michaelson 's chief bosun watched intently, ready to react if the gig started moving too fast toward the dock or if anything else went wrong. Navy sailors never trusted their merchant counterparts to do things right. But the gig came to rest gently against the padded surface of the dock cradle. They could hear a humming transmitted through the hull of the gig as the freighter's air lock moved to mate with the gig.
The bosun finally turned and nodded to Paul. "All secure, sir. It's okay to crack the hatch."
"Thanks, Boats. Good driving." Paul unstrapped, pulled himself to the hatch, and cycled it open.
There were three people awaiting him. One, obviously the captain of the Prometheus, wore a bright coverall betraying the sheen long use. He grinned at Paul. "Did you drive that gig in here?"
"No, sir." Technically, the civilian captain of the Prometheus didn't have to be addressed as "sir," but Paul felt it was only appropriate when dealing with commanding officer of another ship. "That was our chief bosun."
"Any chance I can hire her off of you?"
"No, sir. Sorry."
The captain extended one hand. "Grady Perseus."
The commanding officer of a ship named Prometheus Rising is himself named Perseus? Figure the odds. Paul shook hands. "Lieutenant Paul Sinclair."
"I really appreciate the help from you guys." The captain of the Prometheus turned to point to his companions. "These are your passengers."
Both of the others wore new coveralls, and neither had hair cut short in the usual manner of professional spacefarers. The woman, some of whose long blond hair had escaped from its bun and was drifting in front of her face, smiled politely as she used her free hand to bat at the annoying hairs. "Reverend Alice Fernandez."
Her companion, tall and dark, nodded with equal politeness to Paul even though his expression remained noncommittal. "Doctor William Chen-Meyer."
Paul glanced behind them, where two wreaths formed from cloth were fastened to the bulkhead. "If you're ready, we can leave immediately."
"Thank you," the blond replied. Reaching back to gather in one of the wreaths, she used her other hand to propel herself awkwardly toward the gig's hatch. Paul steadied her, gesturing to the two bosun mates waiting inside to help her to her seat. The dark man followed with the same lack of low-gravity skills.
Paul looked back at the freighter captain. "We should be back in about one and a half hours."
"No problem, sailor. I'll be here."
Paul sealed the hatch and returned to his seat, fastening the straps again quickly. Physically tired and emotionally exhausted from events of the last day and a half, all he wanted was to get this extra job over with. "Let's go, Boats."
"Aye, aye, sir." Several minutes later, the gig was on its way toward the asteroid's surface.
Paul averted his eyes from the screen, which displayed the looming mass of rock they were to all appearances falling onto, and found himself looking at the blond. The reverend, he corrected himself.
Her smile was gone as she stared at the asteroid. Then she looked at Paul. "The reports we received weren't sure how many of the settlers survived."
Paul bit his lip before replying. "Seven."
She winced as if in physical pain. "How many children?"
"Only two."
The dark man was shaking his head. "I just don't understand."
Paul felt anger growing. "We did all we could-"
"No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply… that is." The man took a long, slow breath. "I don't understand the South Asians. Or the settlers. Why fire upon the settlement when other options remained? Why kill your own children? What possible reasons could justify either act?"