“Oh, I’m quite sure you could.” Mannix surveyed the ops bay, glanced out the aft door at another dli on approach, then looked back at Peters. “It’s well to remember what happens to the apple that gets selected.”
“I reckon the best thing for me to do’d be to see if I can’t sort of squirm down to the bottom of the basket.”
Mannix shook his head. “That might be a worthwhile strategy for some, John, but my prediction is that in your case it’s doomed to failure.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Halt,” Peters called out in a fine ringing voice. “Who goes there?”
“Petty Officer Hale,” came from the gloom.
“Advance and be recognized, Petty Officer Hale.”
The other stepped forward. It was indeed Hale, one of the Machinist’s Mates who kept the airplanes shipshape; not someone Peters knew well. “You’re recognized, Petty Officer Hale,” Peters advised in a lower but still businesslike voice. “The challenge is Bubblehead.”
“And the countersign is Carson.” Hale’s voice was amused. “I don’t know who thought up these passwords, but that set’s fairly appropriate. I relieve you, Petty Officer Peters.”
“And I stand relieved.” Peters handed the M22 over and began shucking out of the duty belt. “All quiet. Nothin’ to report.”
Hale nodded and handed the weapon back so he could buckle on the belt. That done, he took the helmet, set it on his head, accepted the gun once more, and adopted the pose Peters had been using: feet slightly apart, weapon grounded, left hand at the small of his back. “I’m not sure whether to be glad or sorry nothing ever happens on these watches,” he remarked conversationally. “It gets pretty boring.”
“Borin’ is good,” Peters advised, an aphorism the sailors attributed to Warnocki.
Hale grinned. “In the normal case you’re right. But five hours of standing here like this isn’t anything that needs thought to prevent excitement. It’s just boring.”
Peters scanned the hangar bay. Planes sat in more or less random orientations, several of them with panels open or removed, but most of the overhead lights were off and there was nobody stirring. What light there was spilled from the catwalks above their heads and across the bay, making the space gloomy and spooky and giving more meaning to the challenge and response of watch relief than any of them were accustomed to.
That, and the fact that Commander Bolton and the other officers occasionally stopped by to check up, were the reasons they played it straight and formal. The zifthkakik they were guarding were safe in the crates the Grallt had provided—five times per watch they made sure of that; Peters had just checked, and Hale would check again as soon as Peters left—but they were the most valuable thing the detachment had, and having them guarded, by guards, seemed to most of them to be entirely sensible. There was of course no credible threat around, but that had nothing to do with it. Like almost all sailors, Peters had taken his turn guarding objects that didn’t look all that dissimilar, in front of an armored, combination-locked door three decks down in the middle of the ship. This was exposed in the wild by comparison.
And besides, it was Navy. So were the bow and stern watches (equally futile), manning the duty desk in the detachment offices, and the recently restored desk in the aft EM quarters access. Not everyone agreed, but most of the sailors felt that after a year and a half of bizarreness they needed the rituals to keep themselves grounded. Dershowitz, second on Retard Two, had even produced a bosun’s pipe and shamefacedly confessed a taste for archaism; now there were three of them who could blow it—not well—and they were piping the watches, like would have been done a century and more ago.
Dershowitz was doing that as Peters rounded the hangar access into the ops bay, the different tweedle of “To Colors.” Two dozen or so sailors were standing around, and a few of the officers were out and about. Peters stiffened to attention; the notes died away, and everybody saluted, facing midships, approximately where the flag would be if Llapaaloapalla had sported such a decoration. They held the pose for a few beats, then somebody called “Stand at… ease” from across the bay. That’d just started recently. There was talk of making it official.
Peters approved. He and Todd had been making a concerted effort to blend in, keep their heads down, merge with the group. So far it seemed to be successful. Todd was still Collins’s plane captain; Peters still led Retard Three, to the extent that leadership was necessary. The detachment had had three mock-battles and gone on liberty once since what he thought of as the time I rode with the Commander, and another liberty was coming up. He’d not been called on to perform the duties of a zerkre; his kathir suit was still in its Navy-blue pattern. They’d stood watches, one ande every five-ande “day” or a little more often; the Chiefs took their turns at bow and stern, as advertised, but they didn’t do desk duty or zifthkakik watch, and the only real effect the impressive gesture had was to leave more night watches for the rest of them.
So why was the hair standing up on the back of his neck lately?
Part of the answer to that question was sheer confusion. Was he Navy, or not? Much as he longed to disappear back into the group he’d long ago accepted as his peers, according to the calendar program in the handheld he wasn’t entitled to as of almost three months ago.
And did he really want to do that?
He had a piece of tough plastic “paper”, signed by Gell and countersigned by Preligotis, that said he was a qualified ship operator—a spaceship pilot, even if the Grallt tended to think of it more in terms of a cox’n. He had a fortune—a bigger one now; he’d invested his half in trade shares, and trading had been good the last couple of zul. Not to mention a half interest in a piece of gear the folks back home would be willing to kill for. Did he really want to hand that all back in for a third chevron and a shot at a rocker? Did he even have that chance, with Joshua still on his case?
Kennard was hanging speakers, as usual at this time of day, preparing for the exercise session. The bow door was closed, as it always was when the ship was in high phase, and the aft one was open, as it was most of the time regardless of phase. Sailors and a few Grallt were idling around the bay, or headed either to or from chow depending on whether they were early birds or not. Everything looked normal—as normal as it could be, umpteen gadzillion klicks—or miles, or feet, or millimeters; past one gadzillion the units stopped mattering—from home, riding around with aliens on a flying saucer. Flyin’ two-by-four, more like, he thought without rancor.
“Mornin’, Peters,” said Tollison as they reached the elevator together.
“Mornin’, Tollison,” Peters acknowledged.
“Were you on watch? Don’t usually see you this late for morning chow.” The big Machinist’s Mate was not a morning person; he preferred to go to chow after Colors. As a result he and Peters rarely encountered one another before exercises.
“Yeah, treasure guard.” Most of the sailors couldn’t say zifthkakik, and all of them were a little reticent about discussing them; the trove was the “pirate treasure”.
“Ouch. Boring.”
“Yeah. I dunno—” Peters broke off at the expression on the other’s face.
“What the fuck?” Tollison was looking over Peters’s shoulder at something, face open in astonishment. Simultaneously the ship—lurched was too strong a word; the sensation was almost the same as when they entered or left High Phase.