“Yes, sir,” he finally said.
“Petty Major Dorson, I will not tolerate the use of formal rank to cover up ignorance and incompetence. It is not your fault that you were assigned a job you didn’t know how to do. It is your fault that you didn’t listen to someone who did know. It is a form of dishonesty only slightly less flagrant than the corporal’s—pivot’s—when you pretend to know what you don’t know. I’m reducing you to sergeant; you will also report at the start of first shift to change your records.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will find that I promote as readily as I demote, if performance warrants,” Heris said. “Don’t throw your stripes away. Now, Dorson, go up and get busy on your lessons—use the midships ladder. Pivot, you come with me.”
They passed through the forward lock in silence, and in silence walked back aft, Heris watching for the rest of the shift’s crew. She found them in a circle, playing cards: three pivots, a pivot major, and another corporal. In one searing blast, she reduced everyone to pivot who wasn’t already, and put them all on extra duty—which, for the ones who had no prior Environmental experience, meant shifts spent at the cube reader, getting qualified. When she was through, she turned to Pivot Acer. “You’re now in command of this shift. You will see to it that first shift finds all values nominal—and you will keep an accurate log. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” His eyes had light in them again.
“If I can find another qualified person, I’ll send ’em down; in the meantime, it’s up to you to whip this bunch into shape. I believe you can do it.”
She was back in her own quarters before she remembered that she hadn’t taken off the tactape which would enable her to tell if anyone had sneaked away. She looked at her chronometer . . . only two hours to sleep before she had to be bright and energetic for first-shift business. Sleepy commanders make bad decisions, she told herself, diving under the covers again. After all, tomorrow night, it was the turn of Drives to have a roaming captain in their midst. She could remove the tactape then.
Solomon Drizh, once an admiral minor in the Regular Space Service and now commander in chief of the mutineer fleet, plotted the newest arrival on his chart. They had been unlucky at Copper Mountain; if they’d had the three weeks he’d planned for, all the mutineer ships could have assembled, with sufficient manpower to gain control of the planet and its resources. Luck of war, no use complaining. Here, at least, no accidental passerby should find them. Here he could assemble his fellow mutineers, train them, and create a force that the government could not ignore.
We are hunters, and we hunt the most dangerous of all game—others like ourselves. Lepescu had said that. War is the best test of man, and hunting men is the next best. That, too.
Drizh grinned to himself. Fleet had gone soft, because the government had gone soft. Always seeking peace, always looking for a way out. He’d had hopes of Thornbuckle, when Thornbuckle sent Fleet to rescue his daughter—any excuse for a war was better than no war at all—but then Thornbuckle had died, shot down by a better hunter. The hunt proves your real nature, whether you are prey or hunter. And the new Chairman, Hobart Conselline . . . all he cared about was profit and long life.
“He thinks like a cow,” Drizh said aloud.
“Sir?” That was his flag captain, Jerard Montague.
“Conselline,” Drizh said. “All belly. But he’ll learn; they all will.” They would bow at last; they would have to, when the loss of civilian lives rose high enough. Then he would command not just the mutineers but all of Fleet, and Fleet would command the government. No more begging humbly for the cheapest supplies: they would have the best, and no arguments.
“They still have some good commanders,” Montague said. “And more ships.”
“True, but they don’t have our edge. Ship for ship we’re superior. Survival through victory—it’s the only way. Besides, there are only a few to worry about.”
“Serrano?”
“Serrano, yes.” For a moment, Drizh allowed himself to regret that Heris Serrano wasn’t one of his people. She had the right instincts; she would have been a powerful and valuable ally. But she had destroyed his mentor, exposed Lepescu to the world as a vicious killer, denounced those who followed him. She was an enemy, and he would destroy her, rejoicing in her fall.
He looked again at his charts, and cursed the cowards who hadn’t yet shown up as they’d promised. He needed more ships, now, before the loyalists had time to organize an effective defense.
In the meantime, waiting the arrival of the others, he could train this nucleus.
“Tightbeam to all ships,” he said. “Close in for drill.” A few days of precision drill, the ships as close as possible, would sharpen the crews’ reactions immensely. Then gunnery drill, then microjump gunnery . . .
Then the war, and the victory.
Chapter Eight
Barin was in the middle of his midshift meal when the alarms whooped again. The task force was still picking up loose mines—a ticklish task even with the help of the specialty minesweeper. The diners seemed to freeze in place for a moment—waiting, he realized, for the announcement that this was another exercise—and then they all lurched into motion. Lieutenant Marcion picked up his bowl and swigged down the rest of his soup, grabbed two rolls, and bolted for the door. Barin eyed the rest of his stew with regret, grabbed rolls for himself, and a hunk of cake from the dessert table, and followed at the double.
He had almost reached his station when he staggered—the artificial gravity had wavered for an instant. That was not a good sign . . . he came around the corner to find Petty Officer O’Neil already in place. He took the list, and began calling names, glad that his voice wasn’t shaky or shrill. Everyone had made it to station; Wahn came jogging up just as he got to that name. Barin reported all present up the tube and got a terse acknowledgement; he wanted to ask what was going on, but knew better.
A shrill whistle: the warning for closing the section seals.
“Must have some shield damage,” a pivot said, and grinned nervously.
“Less chatter,” O’Neil said.
Barin could hear the shuffle of someone’s feet on the deck, the soft whirr of the ventilating fans . . . and the sudden clunk-groan of the section seals as they unlocked and moved in their deep grooves. A final echoing thud cut them off from noises elsewhere in the ship. “Check the seals,” Barin said. Petty Officer O’Neil told off two of the team for that task and set the others to taking initial readings of the pressure, temperature, artificial gravity, and other factors. “Suit by pairs,” Barin said, when the seals had been reported secure. It seemed to take them forever, though he knew the creeping second hand on the chronometer was actually moving at normal speed, and they were suiting up well within the required time.
At last it was his turn; he stepped into the p-suit and found himself remembering a question he’d asked long, long ago. Why, he’d wanted to know, didn’t ships carry escape pods for use in disasters? Everyone knew p-suits weren’t really protection, not if you were blown out into a seething maelstrom of broken bits and pieces. The marines had hardened combat suits, but the rest of the crew . . . He went on fastening seals and making attachments as he remembered the instructor’s answer. There was no way, on a large ship, to provide escape capsules for everyone, and the bulky space combat suits took up too much room, and besides—you shouldn’t be thinking about getting out of the ship, but of saving it—keeping it working.
Barin turned so his partner could check his back—the hang of the air cylinders, the attachments of hose and cable—and then checked his partner’s. For now they didn’t need the suits’ air supply. For now, they had air in the compartment. If all went well, they would come out of this hot, sweaty, smelly, but with fully charged tanks. If it didn’t—they’d have this small additional chance. He had them all call off their air supply gauges; the only one below 100% was Pivot Ghormley, who had predictably forgotten that he was not supposed to turn the airflow on until he needed it. Barin let the petty officer chew Ghormley out and tell him to recharge his tank from the outlet.