How do these things get decided? he wondered. Apparently the lower orders-the enlisted ranks, and perhaps a few NCOs-had made up their minds. So, the Military Heraldry Institute would have something quirky to fit into its grand scheme-provided anybody got back to Earth alive to tell about it.
Rick looked more closely at one of the patches, admiring the stitching-trying to avoid Lisa's eyes. Somebody had reprogrammed the automated garment manufacturing equipment in fine detail. The skull was a leering, bleached thing with sketchy ridge-lines, the sword sort of shiny in silver-white thread, the snake convincingly constrictor-looking, the eagles strikingly noble and angry.
Not bad. So, at least somebody had a little esprit de corps. Somebody way down in the ranks, maybe somebody who had befriended Lron or Veidt or the others.
And now this is our emblem, take it or leave it. He put down his various bundles and held the patch up against the breast of his uniform's torso harness, over his heart, where the duty patch went.
"Not bad," Lisa echoed his thought, reminding Rick she was there. She looked him in the eye, not so tired now that she was alone with him, and they shared a slow smile together. Rick suddenly remembered why they were in love.
Then she held the Sentinels' insignia over her own SDF-3 duty patch, studying his reaction.
"How does it look?"
He drew a quick breath and then turned away from her for a split second, gathering himself and making sure he had heard correctly. His heart pounded; he had thought he was about to lose her.
But she was telling him, in her own way, that she was coming along on Farrago.
What words were appropriate? None…
They took one another's hand and went to the Captain's quarters. There were not too many hours left until the Sentinels' flagship must leave.
They had some packing to do, but that could wait a while
CHAPTER SEVEN
BY ORDER OF THE PLENIPOTENTIARY COUNCIL AND IN ACCORDANCE WITH
APPLICABLE MILITARY REGULATIONS, THE FOLLOWING PERSONNEL ARE ASSIGNED
DETACHED DUTY WITH THE XT FORCE DESIGNATED "THE SENTINELS": Baker, Jack R., Ensign
Grant, Vincent G., Lieutenant Commander
Grant, Jeanne W., Lieutenant Commander (Med)
Hunter, Lisa Hayes, Admiral
Hunter, Richard B., Rear Admiral
Penn, Karen L., Ensign
Sterling, Maximilian A., Commander
Sterling, Miriya P., Lieutenant Commander
Wolff, Jonathan B., Colonel
(Excerpted from seconding orders, mission "Sentinels," UEG starship SDF-3.)
"You can handle it," Lisa assured Commander-now Captain-Forsythe. She concentrated on tossing a few last possessions into a ditty bag. Her quarters-hers and Rick's-were so stark and cold now, stripped of decor and furnishings, ready for Captain Raul Forsythe, the new occupant.
Forsythe ran his hand over a forehead rubbed smooth of hair by decades of military-cap sweatbands. "I know I can handle it, Lisa; I'm just not so sure I can do it as well jumping in flat-footed like this. You know how many people alive have ever commanded a superdimensional fortress? Only one: you."
"Then, it's time there were two." She stopped, having come across something under the blotter on Rick's desk. It was a laminated snapshot of Lisa as a teenager, looking adorable, with a kitten perched precariously on her head. She had given it to him in a moment when she had thought it was all over between them; she felt a tremendous burst of love for him, discovering that he had kept it so close to him all this time.
Admiral Lisa Hayes drew a breath to keep from sniffling. "Um, Captain-sir, remember what you taught me at the academy? The first day, I think it was."
Forsythe allowed himself a chuckle. "That business about not 'consolidating knowledge or expertise in such fashion as to present a tactical disadvantage in event of death, disabling, or disappearance of senior personnel' wasn't supposed to apply to putting me in the hot seat, Admiral.
Lisa."
Lisa ran her forefinger along the seam of her duffel bag, its microfield sealing up behind as if she had touched it with a magic wand. She hoisted the duffel, grunting a little, and Forsythe somehow restrained himself from the lese-majeste of snatching luggage away from his admiral in macho assistance.
The bag landed next to Rick's: two remarkably small bundles of strictly personal possessions.
Lisa looked back to Forsythe. "Captain, you've got more time in the service than I've got in life; we both know that. You'll do fine. If you have any questions, ask the bridge gang; enlisted ratings run that damn place anyway. Mr. Blake and I just let outsiders think otherwise." That notwithstanding, Blake was accompanying her on the Farrago.
Forsythe laughed a little, and then Lisa did, too. He remembered the terribly intense and focused cadet-daughter of another Admiral Hayes-who had come to the academy as a gawky, pale, set-jawed, frightened midshipman.
She put her hand on his shoulder. "It's time there were two SDF-qualified skippers." They saluted, then shook hands solemnly.
She leaned to him, kissed him on the cheek. Forsythe, eyes closed, inhaled the somehow exotic scent of her, and thought wistful thoughts that broke service regs, rationalizing it on the basis of the fact that she would be gone soon. No temptation or threat; just a memory.
Then Lisa was sniffling again, pulling one of those newfangled totally-recyclable tissues from a dispenser, blowing her nose, and tossing it into the recycler. Forsythe busied himself with realigning the duffels by the quarters' hatch. The hatch slid open, and Rick Hunter was standing there.
"Admiral." Forsythe touched his cap's braided brim, and moved past, into the companionway, headed for the bridge. Time to take command.
Lucky dog! Forsythe thought of Rick Hunter as he went along.
Rick went to lock his hands around Lisa's waist, but she kept him at a distance for a moment.
"My giving up this ship, dead in space as she is, useless for now as she is, means even more than your giving up Skull. You acknowledge, Skull Leader?"
He had been taken by surprise, but now he nodded. "I do, Lisa. But the Sentinels need me more than the SDF-3 does, and they need you more, too, and you know that."
She inclined her head, perhaps a little unwillingly. "And it works out so well, for you. No more situation rooms, Rick; no more sidelines. We're about to enter that Ur-Flower furnace that Lang keeps talking about. You'll be right out there on the edge, and so will Max and Miriya and the others."
Only, would that be enough? Or would he find out there was nothing short of flying combat that would satisfy him? She pretended to adjust her duffel's straps. Somehow, that puerile Minmei song,
"My Boyfriend's a Pilot," started playing in her head and it took an act of will to exorcise it. Lisa closed a last side-pocket seam, and hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder. "Ready?"
Rick had been about to offer help, but knew her well enough to know she didn't want any. He wrestled his own bag onto his shoulder and wondered what he and his wife looked like: the willowy, overachieving-service-brat success story, new captain of the Farrago', and the shorter, maybe-muddled-looking guy at her side who suddenly found himself honcho of combat-operations coordination for the Sentinels.
"I love you," he said all at once. Not much of an apology, really, or a rationalization, but the only guidewire there was to his life.
Her duffel shouldered, she nudged his hip with hers. Lisa had to dip a bit to do it. "Mutual.