Subic Bay's main structure is similar, but she's twice that other vessel's length. She has lesser dumbbells crosswise at either end, giving her four tanks instead of two. The thwartships crossbars are longer. They mount heavier drives and probably provide roomier quarters.
Two Climbers are nursing. A third is maneuvering into position. I suppose the naked tank is the one we used.
"First one of these I've seen myself," Yanevich says. "The new Kiel class. They're trying to speed things up. Put more Climbers into action and get more missions per ship. Which means they have to get more CT to Fuel Point faster."
"How about safety? Seems like doubling the handling capacity would cube the chance of disaster."
"Never lost a tanker yet." He grins at my sour expression. "Those people are careful. They know they're sitting on a live volcano. You think our OC was bad? You should see those people. They stay out a year at a time. When they cut loose, they cut loose." He glanced at the screen wistfully. "But they do have mixed crew."
The absence of comrades of a more delicate persuasion is having its effect. Conversations have grown less impersonal and professional. Throdahl is entertaining the watch with an intimate account of his relationship with the black radiowoman. His friend Rose is playing straight man.
It's obvious they're old story-swappers.
Throughout, Fisherman stares at his displays and pretends deafness. His particular faith has a strong fundamentalist bent.
From the shadowed jungle gym of the inner circle, Laramie calls, "Wouldn't it be a candy game if we ran into a she-ship out? Link locks, and holiday routine for the crews." He giggles. When he laughs, Laramie sounds like a nine-year-old girl being tickled.
"Yeah," someone muses. "Wouldn't it be straight dusty, making it in null grav?"
Rose has a story about it. His is as unlikely as all such tales. Nobody believes a word, of course. Convincing the listener isn't their object. The someone again mentions how he'd like to try it hi free-fall.
Someone else says, "You want to try it, go down and see Hardwick."
The old hands snigger.
Nicastro pauses between me and Fisherman. "So soon you forget, Spook. Your playmate isn't with us this go." I'm surprised. The Chief doesn't usually join the game. He pats Fisherman's shoulder.
"Good board, Junghaus."
Good board? Either he has something in detection or he doesn't. Good and bad have nothing to do with tachyon gear, only the operator's skill at interpreting what he sees. When he has no contacts, he can do nothing but watch green lights and a blank screen. Only when yellow shows does he have to pay attention.
Then it dawns. Fisherman is short on confidence. He needs reassurance. His faith is one attempt to bolster it.
"How did Laramie get the name Spook?"
The Chief says, "Earned it in boot camp, I hear. Because he has a talent for becoming invisible when there's work to do. Buckets got his name because he has the chamberpot detail when we Climb.
A reward the Old Man gives people who get on his nerves. The men below can explain their names better than I can."
Nicknames intrigue me. How is it some people attract them, some repel them? There were people hi our battalion who always had one. Subject to momentary change. Some I never did know by a given name. On the other hand, I've never had one myself. I worried about it when I was younger. Didn't they like me?
I suppose I lack color.
Yet Rose and Throdahl are colorful enough. Throdahl's "Thro" is the only thing I've heard used on either of them. It's curious.
Rose is telling a new tale. This one from his recent leave. "We're cruising this road south of Tville, see, and here's this bitch, maybe sixteen, just shaking along. Kicking up dust. Javitts spots her and says, 'I'm going to pick this up.' She ain't even hiking. Like maybe she's headed for the next cabbage patch. Javitts wheels over, asks her does she want a ride. She fish-eyes us maybe half a minute, says okay. You never seen a mover like Javitts. Ten minutes, man, I shit you not, he talks her into stopping by the barracks while we shift to Class A's. Soon as he gets there, he calls this other bitch to say we're going to maybe be a little late. All the tune we're driving, he's talking shit. Now it's my turn while he's on the horn. I'm thinking, what do you do to follow his act? I don't have to worry. She starts talking first. Man, you wouldn't believe it."
"Not from you," Throdahl says. "You got shit coming out your ears. But you're going to tell it anyway, so get it over with. We can't stand the suspense."
"One of these days, Thro. Pow! You know that? Wham! I got my right hand registered. Know what's wrong with you? You got no couth, Thro. Damn right I'm going to tell it. Get some class."
"What about the slut?"
"You got less couth than Thro, Barbarian. What she does is, she turns to me and says, 'You know, I started fucking when I was eleven.' I shit you not. Just like that. Straight off the bulkhead, and wearing the shit-eatingest smile you ever seen. Dusted me. Only thing I could think to say was,
'You should be pretty good, then.' And she said she is, and started telling me about all the guys she screwed and how they all told her she was the best they ever had."
"Get into her?"
"Fucking well right. Let me tell it..."
"Hey," one of the inner circle calls down. "You pick her up on Heyrdahl Road? She have a big Caesarean scar?" That's Laramie again.
"Yeah. So?" Rose sounds a little defensive.
"He ain't lying, guys. That's the slut that gave me the clap last tune we were in."
General laughter. Catcalls.
"You get that certain feeling when you piss?" Throdahl asks and hoots at his own comedic triumph.
"Knowing him," Laramie shouts, "he better start worrying about spitting."
The First Watch Officer leans past me and punches the general alarm button.
The Commander descends from his eyrie in seconds, surveys the silent compartment. He smiles when he sees me at my station.
He thumbs a switch on the shipwide comm. "This's the Ship's Commander. I have the conn. Stand by for maneuvering exercises. Department heads, report."
Each reports his men on station and ready.
"Engineer, what's your influential status?"
"Go, commander."
"Astrogator, are you clear?"
"Clear, Commander."
I glance at Westhause's back. He seems as embarrassed as Fisherman. Curious. He was no prude at the Pregnant Dragon.
"Engineering, take hyper at my mark. Stand by. Execute."
For an instant the ship's interior seems to spin and twist away into a geometric surreality.
"Departments heads, report."
Again all bailiwicks report a go.
"Mr. Westhause, program me a ten-minute Inoko Loop."
The maneuver is a four-dimensional figure eight. Jokester astrogators call it a Moebius trip. This one will return the ship to her starting point in the stated time.
Aboard normal warships the Bridge Engineer would relay the astrogator's program to his own department. Here the as-trogator and Chief Quartermaster handle the data relay.
"Ready, Commander."
"Execute."
There's no sensation of motion. Momentum has no detectable effect inside an influential field.
There's no evidence of movement inside the display tank, either. Westhause has chosen a small, slow, lazy, tight loop involving very little relative motion.
The man is deft, quick, and certain. He's a first-rate astro-gator. It's nice to know I'm flying with an expert.
The CUmber completes the loop. The Commander polls department heads again, drops hyper, conducts yet another poll. Everything is go-go-go.
He has Westhause program an hour's loop with secondary loops built in. Again the results are satisfactory.
There's but one test left. A Climb.
A terrible cold hand seizes me as the Commander begins the countdown. We're hi hyper again. For a few minutes I'm wholly convinced that we're going to die. Then there's a conviction that nothing can happen to this Climber. I'm aboard. Nothing can happen to me. Then the premonition of doom returns. Back and forth, a ball pounded by emotional racquets.