Bolton reappeared almost immediately, again adjusting his headgear in millimeter increments. “Modesty taboo, eh?” he growled, and shook his head, staring at Peters so that the sailor flushed but kept his head up, meeting the officer’s eyes.
Collins took a bit longer. “When can we get the personal gear offloaded?” she asked.
Dreelig thumbed the elevator call and turned. “As soon as I show you to your quarters, I will arrange that,” he told her. “You should have your personal equipment very soon.”
When they emerged in the operations bay Bolton glanced around and shook his head, looking grim, and Peters found himself reading an officer’s mind. The quantity of sheer junk, ranging from the size of a three-millimeter screw to as big as a person’s head, lying around was enough to make anybody who lived between a pair of jet engines apprehensive. That wasn’t such a big deal here—no engines meant no FOD problems, he supposed—but he was expecting God’s own FOD walkdown pretty soon anyway. In a way it was a relief to find something he agreed with the asshole about.
They took the stairway up to what the sailors had designated ‘wardroom level’, hearing bustle and clanks from the wardroom and kitchen but finding no one in the corridors, and continued to the first level of rooms. Several of the officers were standing around chatting; they came to attention when their commanding officer entered the corridor. “This level has been assigned as living space for VF-22,” Dreelig announced, his tone implying that the assignment had come from the Supreme Being, or at least his deputy. “Commander Bolton, your room is at the end of the hall.”
Bolton nodded to Dreelig, said “Very well,” adjusted his headgear once more, and set off down the passage, with a sidelong glance at Peters. “As you were,” he told the officers, who relaxed and resumed their conversations.
Dreelig sighed very faintly. “We will see you again in a few minutes,” he called to Bolton’s receding back. “Commander Collins, if you would come this way…”
They climbed the stairway, entering the fourth level, where the large room was on that end. “Here are your quarters, Commander,” said Dreelig as he pushed the door open.
Peters and Todd had spent quite a bit of time on the commanding officers’ rooms. The bed was made (without a pillow), there was no dust anywhere, the head sparkled, and the floors gleamed with fresh wax. After heroic efforts involving handwaving, pantomime, and shouting, Peer had come up with a couple of lengths of thin cloth and a big chunk of something tan and fuzzy. The cloth had been turned into tieback curtains, by Peters from childhood memory, and the fuzzy thing, which they figured had to be some kind of animal skin, had been cut up to make an acceptable throw rug for each officer. It was Todd who’d thought of the finishing touches: the fluorescent overheads were off, the reading lamp and another incandescent were on, and a request passed to the ship operators had resulted in the Moon being visible through the window. The horns of the crescent were down, but it would take most people quite a while to figure out why that was wrong.
“This is—” Collins began, then drew herself up. “This is quite acceptable,” she said crisply. “Are my other officers quartered similarly?”
Peters and Dreelig shared a wink behind her back. “The other rooms are smaller,” Dreelig told her. “Perhaps Petty Officer Peters could show you the ways in which this might be different from what you are accustomed to. He would be more likely than I to know what you would expect.”
Collins looked amused. “Lead on, sailor,” she said.
Peters flushed and stepped forward. “I reckon you won’t have no, ah, any trouble, ma’m,” he said, “‘cept maybe in the head. Ah, this way, please, ma’m.” He worked the latch, using exaggerated motions that drew another smile from Collins, and showed her the backwards-operating taps and the sideways light switch. “This here takes a little bit of a push, ma’m,” he said, and pressed the plate. The toilet flushed with a roar that suddenly seemed appalling, and Peters colored to the neck of his kathir suit.
“Very well, sailor, thank you for the familiarization tour,” Collins said in a level, businesslike tone. There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, and Peters was relieved. He was going to like Commander Collins.
He and Dreelig found Todd supporting the bulkhead on the landing below. “Well, how’d it go?” Peters greeted him.
“Assholes and dickheads,” Todd summarized, then looked around to make sure no officers were eavesdropping. “They say a CO impresses his personality on his people, but I can’t see how Bolton did it this quick.”
“Commander Bolton has a strong personality,” Dreelig suggested with a smile.
“That he does,” Peters agreed. “Where’s Dee?”
“She took some of the women to the suit office. She said wait an utle or so, then start bringing the men along.” Todd grunted. “Hunh. Dreelig, you’ll have to do it. I was trying to show a couple of ‘em how the head works, and they just said, ‘We’ll figure it out, sailor. Carry on.’”
“What did they think of their rooms?” Dreelig wanted to know.
“I guess they were pleased. They’re all bitching that they don’t have their gear, though.” Todd shook his head and grinned. “Half a dozen of them were ready to go themselves, but Dee stood up straight and told them it wasn’t safe to work in the bay without kathir suits. Peters, that was a stroke of genius, it’s going to keep them out of our hair for hours. I just wish you’d told the rest of us first.”
“I didn’t think of it until the last minute,” said Peters. “We’re makin’ up a workin’ party to go get the gear now. Where’s the stewards?”
“Hiding in the wardroom, I think.” Todd was right. They gathered up four of them, and Todd and Peters headed down the stairs. Dreelig made explanations, not well received by the looks on their faces, and went to collect male officers for kathir suit fitting.
Watching the pilots pull the ladders out was all the clue the sailors had needed. They started on the Hornets, and sure enough, the engine bays had dome-ended cylinders instead of engines. The port ones were all open, giving them a chance to see how the latches worked, and the starboard ones opened easily enough once they’d figured out the valve that equalized pressure.
The women had two seabags apiece, plus enough miscellaneous gear to make two planes all they could unload in one trip. One of the stewards—Peters thought it was Pis, but still didn’t know them well enough to really tell—took a look at the growing pile of duffel and disappeared. Peters was about to call out when Todd restrained him, and Pis came back pushing one hand truck and dragging another. The trucks had nice big bottom trays, and made the job a lot easier.
“You, sailor,” a male officer called to Peters about halfway through it. The men had less duffel than the women did, but there were more of them, and Commander Bolton watched the whole evolution, arms folded, from the door of his room. “When the Hell’s chow around here?” the pilot wanted to know.
Peters had forgotten that the pilots were still on Earth schedule. He pulled out the handheld, generating murmurs and bugged eyes when an apparently solid part of the kathir suit turned out to be a pocket. “Normal ship’s schedule would be at the second llor, sir, that’s about three o’clock your time.”
“Well, shit,” said the officer who’d asked, a spectacularly ugly man with black hair and a mustache. “Our last chow was at 0600, and you could probably see my backbone through my belly button.”
“Hey, Everett, you sayin’ there’s anything to see?” somebody in the back of the group called out, and a chuckle went around.