Officers, probably the backup flight crews, began emerging from the two dli, carrying bags and cases of stuff they’d forgotten or hadn’t had room for on the first trip. Commander Bolton parked with the nose against the inboard bulkhead at an angle, and this time there were ground crews to erect the ladders. He and his RIO popped canopies and climbed out, with the assistance of plane captains as it should be, and stood by the tail watching the rest of the operation.
When the last Hornet had parked against the inboard bulkhead the officers formed up, marched over to their quarters hatch, and started disappearing inside. “Retarder crews, secure consoles and stand down,” Howell ordered. By this time the earbug processor had decided who was what.
“Belay that,” Peters said, and Howell looked up, face clouding. “When the retarders ain’t in use they should be set for dli. One might land any time,” he added mildly. “Shuttin’ ‘em down ain’t the right strategy.”
“Roger that,” Howell grudged. “Retarder crews, set for dlee, normal load and approach speed, full trap. Acknowledge by console.” They all did that, and Howell finished up: “Stand down from retarder console operations.”
Peters pulled off his helmet and watched as the others dispersed. “I believe our performance must be considered satisfactory,” he told Keezer.
“Indeed. Your people learn amazingly fast.” Keezer shook her head, seeming less hostile than before. “Why all the talk? I noticed that much of it was repetitive.”
“Yes.” Peters smiled. “Two reasons. First, if we repeat certain words again and again, our communicators learn who we are and what our assignment is, and direct communications to the proper persons—”
“That’s not believable,” the Grallt interjected.
“Nevertheless it is what we do. Second, we like to leave as little to chance as possible. If all the words are familiar from repetition, anything out of the ordinary is noticed immediately.”
“That’s good procedure,” Keezer approved, “but I still don’t believe you about the communicators. Do you need further instruction?”
“Not at the moment,” Peters told her. “If necessary someone will ask. Thank you.”
Keezer simply nodded and took herself off, the other Grallt following.
Todd was waiting at the enlisted quarters entrance. “That seemed to go well,” was the younger sailor’s comment.
“Real good,” Peters said with satisfaction. “I reckon the retarder crews are just about up to speed.” He lifted his helmet by its strap and gestured, making it swing. “I want out of this deck gear. Chow’ll be ready any minute now.”
“You say it,” Todd replied, but he was smiling.
Peters scanned the four-and-eight sailors clinging to padeyes around the top of the ship. Word from Chief Joshua, via Warnocki, had Commander Bolton chewing bulkheads over the delays, and the Chiefs had decided that not everybody had to be outside qualified before beginning flight ops. The ones who did were the active deck workers: arresting gear, weaponeers, line maintenance, plane captains, and launch crew. Over half of those were in these two groups, so they could give them a full ande of training and finish next llor, an easy schedule. It meant he and Todd lost their chance at a private session. Life was hard.
“All right everybody, listen up,” said Peters. Chief Gross had shouted profane objections and stamped up and down for five minutes or so, and with only that minimal demurral had issued earbugs for outside instruction, including one for ship Ops. Dhuvenig had approved instantly, drafted Se’en for the interim, and assigned two of his crew to language instruction, so there was a watchstander on the bridge who could communicate with them, and Channel One was the bridge again.
Normality. Sort of.
“First off, everybody watch forward,” he said when everyone was facing him. He pressed the button and said, “Bridge, please flash the warning light so everyone will know its appearance.”
“Yes, Peters,” came the reply, and a yellow light began flashing, far forward.
“Thank you, Bridge,” Peters replied. Then, in English: “Keep an eye peeled, you see that light flashin’ you get a handhold right then, and hang on ‘til either I or the bridge tells you different. It’s a Hell of a long way to walk back.” He’d picked a position that gave him Earth as a backdrop to emphasize that point. The others looked suitably impressed, and he told the bridge to turn the light off and began sorting the group into pairs. Todd was doing the same a little further aft.
Peters pushed off the hull, taking up a station about a hundred meters away, and started pairing the sailors off, one to brace against the ship and launch the other with arm and leg thrust. He hoped he was far enough away to shortstop the ones who froze up. In the event, he only had to chase one down, a Gunner’s Mate (Missiles) who seemed to want to just spread-eagle and fly away. That being the only excitement, they got in a good session, and by the end of the ande Peters thought most of them knew what to do. Whether they’d actually do it when the time came was another question, of course.
That ended suit instruction until tomorrow’s outside session. Todd went back to the bay for interpreting in the application of paint. Peters looked for Dreelig on the chance that there was something else he needed to do, but the ambassador—former ambassador, Peters supposed—was occupied with the officers. So was Dee. He did see Se’en at the meal, but she informed him that she was no longer playing nursemaid: “Couldn’t take it,” she said in English. “I’m in the radio room, listening to gossip. Your people do a lot of it.”
“That they do,” Peters acknowledged with a grin.
There were two hundred and twenty-seven beams in the ops bay, Todd told him over second meal; they’d counted. Warnocki wanted fresh paint two meters high along the walls, with a dark green stripe thirty centimeters wide above that. A horseback calculation gave a little over six thousand square meters of tan paint and over six hundred of dark green. “The zerkre are bringing it, along with brushes,” Todd said. “No sprayers. It won’t get done today.”
“Or this week,” said Peters drily.
“Or before we leave,” Todd agreed. “Oh, well, at least it looks better clean.”
“It does that.”
After the meal he sought out Warnocki, who had him bear a hand with parking the planes in the hangars and shifting stores. It was something to do, but in general he had the easiest llor he’d had since boarding Llapaaloapalla. This won’t last long, his cynical inner voice suggested on the way to fifth meal, but he cleaned up, ate, and racked out with no further alarums. Maybe a routine was setting in.
The second session of outside suit instruction went well with, again, the exception of Chief Joshua, who seemed disoriented in weightlessness. Joshua’s attitude had changed somewhat; whether it was the blank suit and Peters’s approach to training, or a change of heart on his own part, he seemed more irritated at his own ineptitude than jealous of Peters’s status. Maybe that’s all it had been all along. Peters kept at it until he thought Joshua could at least get himself out of trouble at necessity, and let it drop.
“Is that the end of that?” the Master Chief wanted to know as they made their way down stairways to the familiar part of the ship.
Peters shook his head. “If the Commander wants to get ops started, I reckon that’s about all we can do in the time we got, Chief.”