And complicating their mission, as Francie had said, among other things in that session last night, Mazian’s sympathizers and supporters, including ships like Champlain, had to have their chance to back off their pro-Mazian actions without being criminalized. Those ships had to have not just one chance to reform, but time to figure out that the flow really was going to dry up, that it wasn’t going to be business as usual, and that things wouldn’t ever again rebound back to what they had been—which had tended to be the case just as soon as the Alliance enforcers were out of the solar system.
He understood Francie’s observation. Once the small operators knew that there were new economic rules, even the majority of them would reasonably move to comply, but no one expected a ship fighting to keep itself fueled and operating to voluntarily lead the wave of reform.
Hence Finity’s extravagant show of compliance… and that proof, via the restaurant, what their cargo was, because the persuasion most likely to convince those operators came down to a single intangible: Finity’s reputation.
They’d gotten something extraordinary in the enthusiasm of little haulers like Hannibal, Jamaica and Jacobite. And the word would spread fast, among ships the connections between which weren’t apparent to authorities on stations.
“We will do a three-hour burn,” intercom announced. “We will do a curtailed schedule to get us up to jump. It’s now 0308h. Starting at 0430h and continuing until 0730 we will be in takehold. There will be a curtailed mainday, main meal at 0800h for both shifts, then cycle to maindark at 0930h for a takehold until jump at approximately 0530 hours. We don’t want to leave our allies unattended any longer than necessary. We will do a similarly curtailed transit at the point…”
“…and we will come in long before Esperance expects us. The captains inform us this is the payoff, cousins, this is the place we make or break the entire voyage. This is the place we came to deal with, and if we carry critical negotiations off at this station, we’ll take a month at Mariner on the return. Meanwhile we have more of those stylish, straight from the packing box work blues from Voyager’s suppliers, and more of the galley’s not-so-bad sandwiches, flavor of your choice… synth cheese, synth eggs and bacon, and real, Voyager-produced fish. Last in gets no choice. All auxiliary services will be shut down until we clear Esperance.”
“Clear Esperance?” was the question that went through the line at the laundry, where Fletcher was in line. Toby and Ashley were on duty at the counter ahead, and as bundles came sailing in, three brand new sets of blues came out to all comers.
“He had to mean Voyager,” was the come-back to that question, but some of the seniors in line said, “Don’t bet on it,” and the intercom went on with a further message,
“The senior captain has a message for the crew. Stand by.”
“I think he really did mean Esperance,” a cousin said glumly.
Fletcher, third from the counter as the frantic pace continued, didn’t understand what was encompassed in no services, but he had a feeling it meant more inconveniences than they’d yet seen on this voyage.
“This is James Robert,” the captain’s voice said. “Congratulations on a job well done. We’re about to make up time critical to our mission. There remains the small chance of trouble at the jump-point, if by the time we arrive there has been an action between Boreale and Champlain, or if Champlain should evade Boreale and stay behind to lay an ambush. This is a canny and dangerous opponent with strong motives to prevent us reaching Esperance. Until we have reached Esperance, then, this ship will stay on yellow alert and will observe all security precautions in moving about the corridors. Expected point transit will be two hours inertial for food and systems check. Juniors, please review condition yellow safety precautions. Again, thank you for a job well done at this stopover, and I suggest you lay in supplies of packaged food and medical supplies for your quarters beyond the requirements to accommodate a double jump. We don’t anticipate a prolonged and unscheduled push either here or at the jump-point, but the contingency should be covered. Priorities dictate we evade confrontation rather than meet it. Good job and good voyage.”
It was Fletcher’s turn at the counter. He picked up clothes for himself and Jeremy as he turned laundry in, and found Jeremy at his elbow when he turned around. “Got the packets,” Jeremy said, showing a small plastic bag full, both trank and the unloved nutrient packets, as best he guessed. Jeremy was just back from the medical station.
There were a lot of the packets, of both kinds. Clearly medical had known their schedule before the announcement.
“We’re on a yellow,” Jeremy said brightly and handed him the bag with the medical supplies. “I’ll get to the mess hall, and pick up some soft drinks and some of those ration bars. They’ll run out of the fruit ones first. You want the red filling or the black?” Jeremy was already on the move, walking backwards a few steps.
“Red!” It was an unequivocal choice. They’d had them while they were working, along with the hot chocolate. The black ones were far too sweet. Jeremy turned and took off at a faster pace, down the line that was still moving along.
“Hey, Fletcher,” Connor said from the laundry line as he walked in the direction Jeremy had gone. Connor and Chad were together. “Find it yet?”
Connor didn’t need to have said anything. Clearly the truce was over. Fletcher paused a moment and fixed Connor and Chad with a cold look, then walked on around the curve to A26.
He laid the clothes and the bag from medical on Jeremy’s bunk, and intended to put the clothes and supplies away.
But, no, he thought. Jeremy might run out of pockets, between fruit bars and soft drinks. He went out and on around to the mess hall, amid the traffic of other calorie-starved cousins, and just inside mess hall entry met Jeremy coming back, with fruit bars stuffed in his pockets and in the front of his coveralls and two sandwiches and four icy-cold drink packets in his arms.
“That should supply the Fleet,” Fletcher commented. “You want me to take some of those?”
“I got ’em. It’s fine. Well,—you could take the sandwiches.”
He eased them out of Jeremy’s arm before they flattened. The two of them started back out of the mess hall area, and met Chad and Connor and Sue, inbound.
“There’s Fletcher,” Sue said. “Tag on to the kid, is it? Who’s in charge of whom, hey?”
He could tolerate the remarks. None individually was worth reacting to. But tolerating it meant letting the niggling attacks go on. And on. And if he didn’t react to the subtle tries, they’d escalate it. He knew the rules from childhood up. He stopped.
“You’re begging for it,” he said to them in a low voice, because there were senior crew just inside, picking up their own supplies, and there were more passing them in the corridor. “I’ll take you three down to the storage and we’ll do some more hunting for what you stole, if that’s what you’re spoiling for. You two guys going to have Sue do that, too?” He’d gotten the picture how it was in that set, and all of a sudden that picture didn’t include Chad as the instigator. Not even Connor, who’d hailed him five minutes ago.
Sue was the silent presence. Small, mean, and constantly behind Connor’s shelter.
“Fletcher and his three babies,” Connor said. “Brat watch suits you fine.”