He's a master of that talent of the feline breed, of adopting a regal dignity in the face of failure, just in case somebody is watching.
Breaches too big for the plug-ups probably wouldn't matter. We would be dead before we noticed them.
Satisfied with the hatch, Yanevich rises and leans past me to thumb a switch. "Ship's Services, First Watch Officer. Commence conversion to patrol atmosphere."
The ship is filled with the TerVeen mixture, which is nominal planetary. Ship's atmosphere will be pure oxygen at twenty percent of normal pressure. That reduces hull stress and potential leakage and eliminates useless mass. Low-pressure oxygen is standard Fleet atmosphere.
The convenience has its drawbacks. Care to avoid fires is needed.
That madman, the Commander, brought a pipe and tobacco. Will he actually smoke? That's against regs. But so is a ship's cat.
"Radar, you have anyone from the other firm?"
"Nothing immediate, sir."
That's a relief. I won't get my head kicked hi during the next five minutes.
Why does Yanevich bother? In parasite mode the vessel's only usable weapon is mat silly magnetic cannon.
Out of nowhere, Junghaus says, "The Lord carried us through. He stands by the Faithful." It takes me a moment to realize that he's returned to our earlier conversation.
A trial shot, I suppose. To see how I react. It'll build to full-scale proselytization if I don't stop it now. "Maybe. But it seems to be he spends a lot of time buddying up with the other team."
"That's 'cause they've got the aged whiskey," someone hoots. Junghaus stiffens. I glance around, can't identify the culprit. I didn't realize that our voices carried that well.
It's very quiet in here. The equipment makes almost no noise.
Junghaus persists. I guess that's why they call him Fisherman.
It seems like forever since I've encountered a practicing Christian. They just don't make them anymore. The race has nd need for its old superstitions out here. New faiths are still in formative stages.
"We're being tried in the crucible, sir. Those who are found wanting will perish."
That same voice says, "And the Lord saith unto him, verily, I shall tax you sorely, and tear you a new asshole."
Nicastro snaps, "Can the chatter."
Was Fisherman a believer before his toe-to-toe with death? I doubt it. I can't ask. The directive to silence includes myself, though the Chief would never be so irisubordinate as to tell an officer to shut up.
"Increasing acceleration to point-two gee in two minutes."
"Contact, by relay from tender Combat Information, desig Bogey One, bearing one four zero right azimuth, altitude twelve degrees nadir, range point-five-four million kilometers. Closing.
Course..."
Here we go. The beginning of the death dance. They've spotted us. They'll throw everything but the proverbial sink. They don't like Climbers.
I missed something while trying not to panic. From the talker's information Yanevich has deduced,
"It's just a picket boat. She's staying out of our way. Carmon, warm the display tank."
I sneer at that toy. On the Empire Class Main Battles they have them bigger than our Ops compartment. And they have more than one. For a thrill, hi null grav, you can dive in and swim among the stars. If you don't mind standing Commander's Mast and doing a few weeks' extra duty.
TerVeen slips past the terminator. Canaan is barely visible. No evidence of human occupation.
Surprising how much effort it takes to make human works visible from space, considering them with the eyeball alone.
I adjust the camera angle. Now I see nothing but stars and a fragment of mother-ship frame almost indistinguishable in the darkness. Doubling the magnification, I set a visual search pattern. I catch a remote, traveling sparkle. "Watch Officer."
Yanevich leans over my shoulder. "One of ours. Putting on inherent velocity. Probably going to check something out."
I continue searching and become engrossed in the view. A while later I realize I'm daydreaming.
We've moved up to point-four gees acceleration. Someone has a magician's touch. His compensations have prevented inertia from vectoring any weird gravity orientations.
We have three bogeys numbered and identified. Chief Nicastro tells me, "They don't bother us before we clear the Planetary Defense umbrella."
The thin screen surrounding the planet will have sucked round our way, to help give us a running start.
From planetside it looked like the gentlemen of the other firm were everywhere. But a sky view from a surface point makes only a tiny slice of pie. A slice studied only when it is occupied. In space the picture becomes much more vast.
The minuteness of an artifact in space is such that you would think that searches might as well be conducted by rolling dice. Chance and luck become absurdly important. Intelligence and planning become secondary.
Still, Command knows whence the enemy comes, and whither he is bound. A sharp watch on the fat space sausage between those points helps narrow the odds. Climbers patrol the likeliest hunting grounds.
The passing legion of verbal reports fades, becoming so much background noise, no more noticed than the ubiquitous plug-ups. I shift my attention from the chatter to the chatterers. I can't always see them, either because they've gone around the curve or because they roam. Fisherman.
Monte Throdahl. Gonsalvo Carmon, who is almost worshipful as he nurtures the display tank. N'Gaio Rose and his Chief, a computerman named Canzoneri who has a diabolical look. Westhause remains fixated on his Dead Reckoning gear. The men I can't see are Isadore Laramie, Louis Picraux, Miche Berberian, Mel-vin Brown, Jr. (he gets insistent about that Jr.), Lubomir Scar-latella, and Haddon Zia. I don't know all their rates and tasks yet. I catch what I can when I hear it mentioned.
The men I can see are serious and attentive, though they don't resemble the heroes Admiral Tannian has created in the media. They sneer at the part, though I think they'd play it to the hilt given leave on a world where they're not well known.
Looks like I've got it made. Nothing to do but watch a screens And damned sure nothing is going to happen on it before some other system yells first. Everybody else is doing two jobs at once. While the Climber is being taken for a ride.
An hour after departure we reach point-five gee acceleration. The compensator finally muffs his adjustment. The universe tilts slightly and stays askew for two hours. The Old Man doesn't bother complaining. They don't notice it down in Engineering because they're closer to the gravity generators in the mother.
Yanevich's prowling brings him within range. "Why are we holding hyper?" Seems to me a quick getaway is in order.
"Waiting for the other firm. They have ships in hyper waiting to ambush us. We won't take till they drop and show us their inherent velocities and vectors. Can't just go charging off, you know.
Got to give them the slip. If we don't, they'll dog us to Fuel Point and all hell will break loose."
I crane and look at the display tank. The mother is the focus there. Neither side looks inclined to start anything.
Each is hoping the other will screw up.
Reminds me of my short career as an amateur boxer. What was that kid's name? Kenny something. They shoved us in the ring and said have at it. We circled and feinted, feinted and circled, and never did throw a real punch. Not chicken, either one of us. Just cautious, waiting for the other guy to commit, to reach and leave an opening. Coach got peeved and sarcastic. We danced while he badmouthed our conservative style.
We didn't let him get to us. We circled and waited. Then our turn hi the ring was up. They never put us hi again.
The next two kids were Coach's type. Gloves flying everywhere. Whup! Whup! Whup! Pure offense, and the winner is the last man twitching. Your basic kamikaze. Blood, spit, and snot all over the ring. Coach had to cut it off before somebody got creamed.