“Enterprise shuttlecraft,” Rupert summarized it. “Circa, oh, say ten BC. Reckon any of these jerks ever heard of aerodynamics?”
“Most of the rest of ‘em ain’t,” Peters pointed out. “These here are a little worse’n average, is all.”
“You got that right,” Rupert said sourly. “Oh, well, as I remember we’re supposed to be showing ‘em what hot shit we are so’s we can sell ‘em stuff. These people look like they could use just about anything we can offer.”
“They’re called nekrit,” said Jacks. “They’re not from here, so they’re stayin’ the night, in the section aft of the officers’ quarters.”
Retard Three was standing by their console ready for flight ops, watching with interest as the big and little new guys emerged from the hatch and looked for their ships. They saw them, began discussing it among themselves, and progressed to angry shouting, mostly at Chief Warnocki. The Senior Chief didn’t understand what they were saying, and the rest of the deck crew tended to give them a blank look and a shrug and walk off. Nobody threw any punches, which cost Rupert two ornh.
“Nekrit,” said Peters, tasting the word.
“Yeah,” said Jacks. “Se’en says they’re pree-verts.” He and Se’en were still an item, something none of the others would have predicted. The sailor hadn’t learned any Grallt from the association, but Se’en had perfected her English to the extent of adopting a nasal intonation and adding “-s” to “you”—in other words, copying Jacks’s Joisey accent. Her job in the “listening room”, where the few functioning radio receivers aboard Llapaaloapalla were located, meant she mostly knew what was going on. Peters had been keeping out of sight and as much as possible out of mind; with Dee still diffident about approaching the zerkre and Dreelig not talking to enlisted any more, most of what the sailors knew about what was happening tended to come from Se’en via Jacks.
“What the Hell would they call a pervert?” wondered Rupert.
“Se’en says they don’t mate,” said Jacks.
“Shit, they gotta mate, don’t they?” Rupert asked. “Otherwise no little nekrit.”
“Right,” said Jacks. “What I mean is, Se’en says they don’t fuck, at least not one another. The big bruisers lay eggs, and the little fairies come along and fertilize them.”
“So?” from Rupert.
“So they don’t give a damn where the eggs go,” said Jacks. “Back home they got a species of animal, the big ones just jab right in the abdomen. The little ones come by and fuck the bloody hole.”
There was a general murmur of “Holy shit!” The Grallt matched human mating patterns fairly closely, but there were other variants. This seemed worse than usual.
“They really don’t give a damn,” Jacks continued. “Anything with a hole in it already’s good, but not really necessary. Assholes don’t work, of course.”
“Rapists?” asked Peters quietly.
“You got it,” said Jacks. “Se’en’s worried, one of her friends is a steward.”
“Green Three, what’s your status?” the Master Chief asked through the earbugs.
“Consoles manned and ready,” Howell responded immediately, which was an exaggeration. The consoles were ready, but the operators were clustering around Jacks.
“Acknowledged, Green Three,” Joshua came back with a tinge of irony in his tone. He could see the deck from his perch on the O-1 of the officers’ quarters, and couldn’t have missed what was going on. He also knew retarders wouldn’t be needed for some time. “All hands, launch in one tle,” he added. “We’re up first as usual so our guests can watch. Hornets, then Tomcats.”
The nekrit were standing around in pairs, leaning against their ships or in little chatting groups. They watched, ostentatiously “not watching” with eyes averted except for short flicking glances, as the deck crews deployed in the half-military, half-artistic patterns they’d developed. Peters was reminded of—what?—hah. They reminded him of Gonsoles and the rest of the tough guys clustered around Everett. All they needed was chews of tobacco.
Plane captains began taxiing Hornets out of the hangar access. All of them had panels hanging open, and the redshirted armorers approached each in turn, making sure the lasers were set properly for the coming event. Mechanics followed, giving each a last once-over.
Once the Hornets were in ready position the plane captains dismounted, meeting the pilots with sharp salutes at the base of the boarding ladders. Pilots boarded, and plane captains followed to help with securing straps, umbilicals, and helmets. Finally the plane captains swarmed down the ladders and removed them with help from waiting crews, the canopies went down, and the planes moved forward into Senior Chief Warnocki’s territory, guided by yellow-shirts with lighted batons.
Crossed batons brought them to a halt, and a little baton-twirl suggested a final check of all onboard systems. That done, the pilot nodded; the ground guide skipped out of the way and brought the batons parallel and horizontal, and Warnocki saluted. The pilot returned the salute, and the Senior Chief converted his gesture into a spin, ending with his right arm at full extension toward the bow, finger pointed. The Hornet shot down the bay and disappeared, and the next one began moving up.
Pretty as a picture and stylized as ballet; Peters wondered for the umpteenth time what would happen when they had to go back to steam cats, howling turbines, and limited deck space after doing it this way for two years.
Thirty seconds between launches, a nice leisurely pace, got the ten Hornets off in five minutes, and Tomcats started moving up by pairs. Side-by-side launches were possible with the wings folded back, if they didn’t care if they whiffed the theatrically unimpressed nekrit with the wingtips. Apparently they didn’t. The first pair missed an idly chatting group by inches, or so it seemed from where Peters stood. The nekrit seemed to agree, moving toward the walls before the next brace launched, waving hostile gestures at the planes.
The humans’ launch cycle ended with 107, a singleton now and forever, or until they lost another one. Deck crews began moving to their standby stations against the walls; it was the guests’ turn.
The nekrit were straggling, two by two, toward their craft, chatting and waving their arms at one another. The sailors didn’t touch anything as the aliens saddled up and began moving out in a disorganized swarm.
They didn’t want any help; need was another thing. One of the ships wouldn’t start, or something. The larger of the two crew(men?) piled out the hatch and started beating on a whatsit with a bar. The smaller one got out, made a human-looking shrug and grimace at the watchers, and tapped its (buddy?) on the shoulder. They exchanged a few words and a mutual shrug, then moved off to the quarters hatch, leaving their box where it sat. And that, apparently, was that. “Christ,” said Rupert. “I’ve seen more discipline in a biker gang.”
“You’ve never seen a biker gang,” said Peters.
“Bullshit,” said Rupert. “Outlaws used to come through town pretty regular when there was still gas.” That would have been when Rupert was about five or six.
“Right,” said Peters. “Come on, let’s go get some chow. This shit will still be here when we get back.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Recovery a half-ande later started out as a duplicate of the previous day, bar one less ugly box. They didn’t come in with quite the same verve; Retard Three caught two of them before they broke Four. Parking was different, too, since Chief Warnocki had a squad of deck apes in kathir suits with duty belts and rifles. The nekrit seemed to know what slug-thowers were, and an M22 up the nose was enough incentive to get their ships more or less lined up with their nonfunctional companion before the Hornets and Tomcats needed the bay.