Outboard, on her right, were transparent tubes and containers glowing green or blue or amber with the various cultures in them . . . brightly backlit by the lights that optimized their growth. Beyond, the gleaming curves of more pipes, pumps, countercurrent exchange chambers. Beyond—invisible from here—were the honeycomb tricklebeds. Settling tanks aft, mixing tanks forward.
Inboard, the space from deck to overhead was filled with the secondary atmospheric system . . . canisters, pipes . . . and the food processing sections, neat rectangles of hydroponic beds.
Heris sniffed. Environmental was, arguably, the smelliest place on a ship. A healthy system smelled like a spring day in the country on a well-terraformed planet: a rich mix of odors from musky to astringent, but nothing actually unpleasant. The best environmental techs she’d known could diagnose a problem with just a quick sniff, recognizing at once which sludge chamber or bacterial strain was out of kilter.
Here—her nose wrinkled involuntarily—among all the yeasty, earthy, pungent odors that belonged here was an acrid one . . . a scorched smell, as if a cook had singed not just a steak, but his beard. She sniffed her way toward it, reminded incongruously of Bunny Thornbuckle’s foxhounds—was this how they felt, tracking a fox?
Acrid, yes . . . and faintly metallic. Now she could hear a different sound, a hissing followed by a soft roar. Her mind rummaged through a library of smells and sounds; she could almost see it at work . . . then it came to her. Brazing? Soldering? Something with a little blowtorch and lengths of tubing. Something that was never done here on Environmental, because . . . she strained for the memory of a text she’d read . . .
Voices, now: “But, sir, the manual says—”
“Corporal, do you see these stripes?”
“Yes, sir.” A very unhappy corporal. A corporal who knew the manual. “But, sir, if the metal vapor comes in contact with—”
“Just do it!” said the angry older voice.
Heris moved fast, and saw them, a cluster of figures around one of the pipes connecting two chambers. “STOP!” she said. “Don’t move,” she added in a quieter voice.
“Who’s that?” asked the older voice. “What are you doing down here? This is a restricted area!”
“Not to me, it’s not,” Heris said. She had the satisfaction of seeing the man’s eyes widen and his face go pale. A petty major . . . Dorson, by his nametag.
“Comman—er . . . Captain. Sorry, sir. I thought it was one of the ratings sneaking about . . .”
“Turn off that torch, Corporal Acer,” Heris said, to the equally pale-faced young man. He complied, with a quick glance at the petty major.
“Now suppose you explain to me why you were about to use that torch on this equipment,” Heris said to Dorson.
“Well . . .” with a poisonous glance at the corporal. “This man found a drip in the line. It dripped last shift, too, and I’d had him put some glub on it, but it was dripping again. So I told him to get the torch out and put a proper patch.”
“I see. Corporal, explain your objection.”
“Captain, this is a new joint, just installed at the refit. There’s always a bit of a problem with new installations, a little drip, but the way Chief Kostans taught me to handle it was to glub it until the sediment has a chance to build in. That cushions it against pump surge, too, where a rigid fix wouldn’t. But more than that, you don’t want to put metal vapor onto this stuff—it eventually corrodes the line, and then you’re in worse trouble.”
“Petty Major Dorson, how long have you been in shipboard Environmental?”
“Shipboard, Captain? Never, really. My main speciality is administration, records division; I guess they put me on this list because I’ve been keeping the regional headquarters files on environmental issues up to date.”
That figured. “And on the basis of that lack of experience, you saw fit to overrule a man who’s actually been doing this job?”
Dorson flushed. “I didn’t see where it could do any harm . . .”
“Petty Major Dorson, can you explain why the aft personnel lock hatches were jammed open, and the sensor blanked?”
His jaw dropped. “I—I—what’s wrong with that? As long as both the aft and forward locks are fully open, then the pressure equalizes . . .”
Out of the corner of her eye, Heris could see the corporal’s not quite successful attempt to hide his reaction to this.
“The point of the locks,” Heris said, “is so the pressure won’t equalize—so that a problem on one side does not get to the other.”
“But we’re not in combat—they only close the section hatches in combat—”
Heris took a deep breath, and turned to Acer. “Corporal, rack that torch where it belongs and go secure the forward personnel lock; I’ve secured the aft already. If you see other personnel, say nothing to them. Pick up the forward log book. Then come back.”
“Yes, sir.” He practically scampered away, exuding virtue.
Heris turned to the hapless petty officer. “Petty Major Dorson, you know nothing about a real environmental system. You will have to learn. But since you nearly caused a major breakdown which could have had fatal consequences, you are relieved from your duties here. You will begin studying environmental systems with the introductory course, and you will have completed the first two chapters by the end of this shift—I’ll expect to see your exam scores above ninety percent, if you want to retain your stripes.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked more stunned than contrite, but at least he wasn’t arguing.
“When you finish the introductory course, you will report to Environmental as an apprentice tech—only because we are short-handed with real techs—and you will obey the orders of anyone who has more experience. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” She looked up to see Corporal Acer approaching. “Corporal, what are the most recent readings?”
Now he looked embarrassed. “Most recent? I guess that would be—”
“I don’t want guesses, Corporal. Let’s see that log book.” She glanced at the last page. “Is that your signature, Corporal?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I see that you’ve recorded all values as nominal—I presume that means you checked every gauge and every readout . . .”
“Er . . . no, sir. Not all of them.”
“In other words, you falsified the log?” He shot a quick glance at the petty officer, then gulped and answered. “Yes, sir; I initialled that entry, and yes, sir, I signed off on checks I hadn’t made.”
Heris folded the log book and tapped it against her leg. They both looked as if they would much rather be facing an open airlock than her, and that’s exactly how she wanted them to feel.
“We have two problems here,” she said finally. “We have incompetence attempting to rest on rank alone for authority, and we have competence choosing to be dishonest. Frankly, I have no use for either, but this is a war, and I’m stuck with you. We can deal with this at Captain’s Mast, or we can deal with this here and now. It’s up to you.”
“Now, if the Captain wishes.” That was the corporal; the petty officer just nodded.
Heris cocked her head at him. “Corporal, I don’t know why you zanged that log. You may think you had a good reason—” She paused, to see if he would try to produce an excuse, but he said nothing. All the better. “But in my books, nothing—nothing at all—justifies lying to your captain, and that’s what you did. I’m extremely displeased, and your competence in your specialty does not in any way change that. I’m reducing you to pivot; you’ll report to the Exec at first shift and get your records changed.” Again she waited.