Fly-by was a show-out, but, God, that was good news: he was no cheap write-off and neither was his crew. Cheers at that. A faint laugh out of Dek.
“As you know,” Graff continued, “the mag interfaces took damage in shut-down, repair crews can handle that... but the larger question is what caused the pod to hang, and we are not putting crews back into the moving sims until we can pinpoint a cause and ensure operational safety. This does not, however, mean the program is at stand-down.”
Whole room must be breathing in unison, Meg thought. Good on everything they’d heard so far. But there were the UDC uniforms.
Just hope to God they aren’t putting us back under Tanzer.
“—Lab-sims will continue as scheduled. We have also made selection of Fleet crews for a carrier operations exercise—“
“Test run,” Dekker muttered, at her side. Translation from a lot of sources, to the same effect.
“—starting within the hour.” Quiet settled. Quickly. “In the meanwhile we are taking steps to integrate Fleet and UDC instructional and operational personnel. You will see UDC personnel in Fleet areas, eventually in barracks: on which matter I want to say something specific Rising murmur of dismay. The lieutenant waited, frowning.
‘ ‘There was an incident reported to me, out of rec-hall, an attempt from a UDC crew to meet this company halfway, which was reciprocated with good grace. As a pilot myself, I appreciate the cnticality of operational confidence in fellow personnel—let’s be blunt: confidence of mat kind was a casualty of the Wilhelmsen run.
“But what went wrong with this program does not serve this program; and when you’re heads-up and hands-on, what doesn’t serve this program doesn’t serve you or the carrier you’re defending. I don’t have to spell out to you the reality for the future: that you will be working with UDC crews, whose lives will be equally at risk, including the lives of personnel aboard your carrier. Competition is well and good where it brings out extreme effort. But the relationship between the four core crewmembers of this ship will be extended eventually to the complete thirty-member support team aboard, who will rely on core crew: in the same way, a carrier’s four Hellburner crews will have to rely on each other, and on that carrier and its internal support crew, for survival. There is no more serious business. Those of us from merchanter background have never quarreled with your style or your customs—and we refuse to quarrel with the personal customs of our sister service out of the inner system. Whatever makes a crew work, is that unit’s business and only their business: that’s the position we’ve always taken. That’s the position we expect you to take now, because when you’re out there in the wide dark, friends, your personal style, and whether you’re from Sol’s inner or outer system, doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. The reliance you have on the crews making up your defensive envelope-—that’s all you’ve got. Those are your brothers and your sisters. And me uniform will not matter.”
Murmur from the barracks, worried murmur.
Graff cut it off with: “The names of the pilots...” and got instant quiet. “.. .of the three crews selected, given alphabetically: Almarshad,... Dekker,... Mitchell. Those crews: pack immediately and board ECS4 within the hour; your quarters in this barracks will remain in your name, sacrosanct. You have no mass limit for this particular run: the carrier’s engines will not notice your handweights or your case of soft drinks, for that matter; but remember that all electronics aboard must be listed with the duty officer, and alcohol and medications of any sort must be dispensed by carrier staff only.
“Other crews will keep listed schedules. That’s all, guys, have a good evening. We’ll have a further briefing after breakfast call.”
“Lieutenant!” Mitch called out. “Is that as in—test flight?”
“It’s as in keeping this program going, Mr. Mitchell. You’ll get more specific briefings after you’re aboard. That’s all I can tell you. I won’t be making this trip. You’ll be under the orders of Comdr. Edmund Porey, specifically. Goodbye, good luck, good outcome.”
“Porey!” Sal beamed.
“What in hell are they doing?” Ben muttered, which was what she was thinking. “They’re crazed,” Dek said, and called out, “Lieutenant!” started across the room.
And stopped, still, arms at his sides, just stopped, for no reason she could see. The lieutenant was still standing there, looking straight at him with a worried expression, but Dek didn’t ask his question and the lieutenant didn’t give his answer.
“Shit!” Sal said, and went for Dek before she had the brains to, as Graff walked out with Villanueva, and guys were coming up and accosting her and Sal and Ben with congratulations—noisy and excited gatherings around Almarshad and Mitch and their guys, speculation flying... upbeat: the whole program had crashed on them, and now everything was moving faster than anyone thought.
“Dek.” She got his attention and he looked sane—sane and a little shaken. Ben overtook and asked: “What are we doing in this sort-out?”
“We have to pack,” Dek said for an answer, which meant, to an old Company hand, We can’t discuss it here.
Another time-glitch, the station’s smooth pale surfaces to the carrier’s spartan corridors, foam steel and color codes, lights that worked only when there was presence, hand-lines rigged every which way, and deja-vu on every surface. The rigging crew had been kind enough to supply a hand-line with a color cue and Dekker followed it, herding the duffle along, the head of his little column, Mitchell’s group and Almarshad’s. Long, long way from the entry to me rider loft: the lifts wouldn’t take them where they wanted to go so long as the carrier core was crashed, and the rules wouldn’t let you do miner-tricks, not on Porey’s ship, he had that by experience. You slogged it the hard way, and expected sore arms.
Ship’s officer was ahead, check-in point. “Welcome aboard,” they got; and a copy apiece of the ship’s internal regs; and the standard information on alcohol, volatiles, explosives, electronics, and live animals or plants.
“Inner perimeter take-hold for power up...” rang out on the speakers—inner perimeter didn’t mean them; which he knew, but not everyone seemed sure of on the instant; and the petty officer said, “Core’s going to engage for you. You can take the lift, captain’s compliments.”
Captain’s compliments. He took a breath, exchanged glances with his crew, thinking, Bloody hell... because extravagant gestures from Porey were highly suspect. The man liked causing pain: he’d met what he’d taken for examples of the type, but cheap talent, compared with Porey’s position and intelligence and potential. He didn’t want to be on this ship, he didn’t want to be under Porey’s command, even feeling as he did now that Porey was a competent commander—he knew in his mind that they were aboard for security reasons, not because of the test; and they weren’t mission candidates, he’d said as much to his crew in the privacy of their quarters, but the way this was starting out, this move on Percy’s part—was Porey in games mode. You bet your life on your nerves and your skill, and they had Porey jinking like this to start with, yanking them out, putting UDC into the barracks when he damned well knew they were worried about UDC security? A dozen guys with combat nerves, trained to deal with this kind of thing, and what in hell was Porey up to, making maneuvers on the ones trying to make his program work?
Snake, he thought as he punched the lift call. It’s politics, it’s damned, stinking politics, that’s what it smells like— he’s afraid I’ll talk, he wants me where he can control com, where I can have another accident if it comes to that— man’11 do anything, nothing in him you can get hold of, nothing gets to his eyes except when people squirm—he enjoyed it this morning, when he knew he’d got a hit in, and I hadn’t done anything, he’s that kind...