Eventually, he would be reported lost, along with the entire crew of the Lord Vanek. Relatives would be notified, tears would be shed against the greater backdrop of a tragic and unnecessary war. But that would be no concern of his. Because — just as soon as he finished this drink — he was going to stand up and weave his way to his cabin and lie down. Then await whatever would follow over the next three months, until the jaws of the trap sprang shut.
It was hot and somewhat stuffy, in Rachel’s room, despite the whirring white noise of the ventilation system and the occasional dripping of an overflow pipe behind the panel next to her head. Sleeping wasn’t an option; neither was relaxation. She found herself wishing for someone to talk to, someone who would have an idea what was going on. She rolled over on her back. ”PA,“ she called, finally indulging an urge she’d been fighting off for some time. ”Where’s Martin Springfield?“
“Location. Ship’s wardroom, D deck.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Negative.”
She sat up. The crew were at their action stations: what on earth was Martin doing there on his own?
“I’m going there. Backdoor clause: as far as the ship is concerned, I am still in my cabin. Confirm capability.”
“Affirmative. Backdoor tracking master override confirmed.” They might have rebuilt the ship’s fire control and propulsion systems, but they’d left the old tab/badge personnel tracking grid in place — unused, probably, because it reduced the need for tyrannical petty officers. Rachel pulled on her boots, then stood up and grabbed the jacket that lay on the upper bunk. She’d take a minute to look presentable, then go and find Martin. She was irresponsible to leave her airtight cabin while the ship was cleared for action — but so was he. What was he thinking of?
She headed for the wardroom briskly. The access spaces of the warship were eerily quiet, the crew all locked down in airtight compartments and damage control stations. Only the humming of the ventilation system broke the silence; that, and the ticking of the wardroom clock as she opened the door.
The only occupant of the room was Martin, and he looked somewhat the worse for wear, slumped in an overstuffed armchair like a rag doll that had lost its stuffing. A silver-chased tea glass sat on the table in front of him, half-full of a brown liquid which, if Rachel was any judge of character, was not tea. He opened his eyes to watch her as she entered, but didn’t say anything.
“You should be in your cabin,” Rachel observed. “The wardroom isn’t vacuum-safe, you know.”
“Who cares?” He made a rolling motion of one shoulder, as if a shrug was too much effort. “Really don’t see the point.”
“I do.” She marched over and stood in front of him. “You can go to your cabin or come back to mine, but you are going to be in a cabin in five minutes!”
“Don’t remember signing a contractual … of employment with you,” he mumbled.
“No, you didn’t,” she said brightly. “So I’m not doing this in my capacity as your employer, I’m doing it as your government.”
“Whoa—” Rachel heaved. “But I don’t have a gummint.” Martin stumbled out of the chair, a pained expression on his face.
“The New Republic seems to think you have, and I’m the best you’ll find around here. Unless you’d prefer the other choice on offer?”
Martin grimaced. “Hardly.” He staggered. “Got some 4-3-1 in left pocket. Think I need it.” He staggered, fumbling for the small blister pack of alcohol antagonists. “No need to get nasty.”
“I wasn’t getting nasty; I was just providing you with an inertial reference frame for your own good.
‘Sides, I thought we were going to look out for each other. And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t get you out of here and into a cabin before someone notices. Drunkenness is a flogging offense, did you know that?” Rachel took him by one elbow and began gently steering him toward the door. Martin was sufficiently wobbly on his legs to make this an interesting experience; she was tall, and had boosters embedded in her skeletal muscles for just such events, but he had the three advantages of mass, momentum, and a low center of gravity. Together, they described a brief drunkard’s walk before Martin managed to fumble his drug patch onto the palm of one hand, and Rachel managed to steer the two of them into the corridor.
By the time they reached her cabin, he was breathing deeply and looking pale. “In,” she ordered.
“I feel like shit,” he murmured. “Got any drinking water?”
“Yup.” She pulled the hatch shut behind them and spun the locking wheel. “Sink’s over there; I’m sure you’ve seen one before.”
“Thanks, I think.” He ran the taps, splashed water on his face, then used the china cup to take mouthful after mouthful. “Damned alcohol dehydration.” He straightened up. “You think I should have more sense than to do that?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” she said drily. She crossed her arms and watched him. He shook himself like a bedraggled water rat and sat down heavily on Rachel’s neatly folded bunk.
“I needed to forget some things very badly,” he said moodily. “Maybe too badly. Doesn’t happen very often but, well, being locked up with nobody for company but my own head isn’t good for me. All I get to see these days are cable runs and change schematics, plus a few naive young midshipmen at lunch.
That spook from the Curator’s Office is hanging around all the time, keeping an eye on me and listening to whatever I say. It’s like being in a fucking prison.”
Rachel pulled out the folding chair and sat on it. “You’ve never been in prison, then. Consider yourself lucky.”
His lips quirked. “You have, I suppose? The public servant?”
“Yeah. Spent eight months inside, once, banged up for industrial espionage by an agricultural cartel.
Amnesty Multinational made me a prisoner of commerce and started up a trade embargo: that got me sprung pretty quick.” She winced at the memories, grey shadows of their original violent fury, washed out by time. It wasn’t her longest stretch inside, but she had no intention of telling him that just yet.
He shook his head and smiled faintly. “The New Republic is like a prison for everyone, though. Isn’t it?”
“Hmm.” She stared through him at the wall behind. “Now you mention it, I think you could be stretching things a bit far.”
“Well, you’ll at least concede they’re all prisoners of their ideology, aren’t they? Two hundred years of violent suppression hasn’t left them much freedom to distance themselves from their culture and look around. Hence the mess we’re in now.” He lay back, propping his head against the wall. “Excuse me; I’m tired. I spent a double shift on the drive calibration works, then four hours over on Glorious, troubleshooting its RCS oxidant switching logic.”
“You’re excused.” Rachel unbuttoned her jacket, then bent down and slid off her boots. “Ow.”
“Sore feet?”
“Damned Navy, always on their feet. Looks bad if I slouch, too.” He yawned. “Speaking of other things, what do you think the Septagon forces will do?” She shrugged. “Probably track us the hell out of here at gunpoint, while pressing the New Republic for compensation. They’re pragmatists, none of this babble about national honor and the virtues of courage and manly manhood and that sort of thing.”
Martin sat up. “If you’re going to take your boots off, if you don’t mind—” She waved a hand. “Be my guest.”
“I thought I was supposed to be your loyal subject?”
She giggled. “Don’t get ideas above your station! Really, these damned monarchists. I understand in the abstract, but how do they put up with it? I’d go crazy, I swear it. Within a decade.”