“How large a project?”
“A project that fills an asteroid station is a large project” She smiled that smile again, the one I wanted to catch in a portrait “Why don’t we get you settled? After that if you would like tea, we can sit and talk. I do have an old-style teakettle. I brought a large amount of real tea. One cannot formulate tea.”
I could use some tea. Maybe I could also persuade her to sit for an informal portrait too.
13
Goodman/Bond
From the Hamilton D.S.S. orbit control station, we were crammed into an in-system transport, a photon-scoop slowboat that took five days to cart us out-system somewhere. Half the techs complained that there were no bunk screens, only single entertainment screens in the commons. They were spoiled. Individual entertainment screens?
At our destination, we were delocked and ordered along a long passageway, blue for crew. From the bulkheads alone, I could tell we were in an asteroid station. It smelled too good to be an old one. It had to have been built to support whatever mission I was being inserted into. The colonel had that part right.
We were herded into a long bay. Once the hatch closed, there were almost fifty techs in the bay. None of them were unrated. The lowest-ranking techs were thirds. No one showed up to order us around or brief us immediately. So I listened.
“… pulled me right off the Charlemagne ... had almost a full tour to go…”
“I was headed for the Guevara ...”
“Never heard of her…” That was Gutersen, loud as always.
“Special ops vessel… does sweeps along the Arm nearest the Alliance…”
“Better them than the Covenanters. Those guys are crazy. They believe that the whole universe was created by their God for them to control.”
“Or fill with people. They say that every woman’s supposed to have eight children. They don’t believe in synth-wombs or geneing either.”
Eight was only the optimum. I’d known lots of people who’d only had four or five children, as well as some who had had ten or twelve. It was an individual choice, depending on what the man thought was best for the couple. The bishops and the crusaders don’t get into personal choice, unless it’s serious. I never knew a prior who intervened, although I supposed they could have, but that always meant the woman got deep-conditioned.
“They want it natural all the way.”
“So do I,” guffawed Gutersen. “Natural all the way.”
The two both laughed.
One of the younger female techs snorted derisively. I had trouble with females on ships and stations. It didn’t seem right, but I smiled along with the others.
“Attention on deck!” The words rolled through the bay.
Everyone snapped to. Two men walked to the front of the group. One was a commander, the other a chief tech ops tech.
The commander scanned the group. Mild-looking, except when his eyes hit on me. He’d have held his own with either Truesdale or Ibaio. He didn’t speak until the bay got quiet. That didn’t take long. “I’m Commander Morgan, and I’m the ops officer on the Magellan. This is Chief Tiernesco. You’re the last contingent to be assigned to the C.S.S. Magellan. Some of you have been asking whether she’s a dreadnought or a battle cruiser or what. I can’t tell you, because there’s no classification. She’s a converted colony ship, but she’s been rebuilt from the inside out. The mission is a deep-space science exploration run. That’s the bad news. The good news is that you’ll get better habitability here than on a regular D.S.S. vessel. You get staterooms, not bays. Tech thirds and below are four to a room. Techs two and above are two to stateroom…”
I wouldn’t have to bunk with Gutersen. That was a relief.
“This could be a long mission, but it is a combat tour, even if we don’t expect any combat, and you’ll get double credit. The chief will fill you in.” Morgan nodded to Tiernesco. “It’s yours, chief.”
Tiernesco didn’t say anything until the hatch closed behind Morgan. “You all heard the commander. This is a combat tour. You all know what that means. The commander is strict, but fair. So is the captain. You’d have to go a long ways to find fairer officers, or better ones. But he doesn’t like shirkers, and he doesn’t like excuses. Neither do I.
“The ship’s in the final stages of prep, and you’ll be working with the fitters to finish things up. It’s cheaper, and you’ll also get to know things better. That’s important, because gear won’t always be where you’d think it should be. This layout is D.S.S., but it’s different D.S.S.”
The chief tech stopped. His eyes fixed on a tall thin tech. The tech shifted his weight.
Tiernesco offered a cool half smile before continuing. “Quarters assignments are posted on the screens at the end of the bay. You’ll be heading to supply here on the station once you’re dismissed. You’ll pick up a full kit there. Then you’ll take lock two and head up the tower to the ship. Once you’re on board, you’re on board, unless you’re specifically ordered back to the station as part of your duties.” The chief stopped to let his words sink in.
Whatever the D.S.S. was investigating, they certainly didn’t want anyone letting anyone else know, even on the support station.
“Once you’ve gotten your kit, you all head to sick bay aboard the Magellan. You don’t go anywhere else. Everyone… everyone gets a baseline med and DNA scan before starting duties. Once you’ve been scanned into the ship system, find your quarters and drop your kit. Then you report to your duty stations. Like every D.S.S. ship, it’s blue passageways for crew.”
I had to hope that the colonel’s plant had managed to get my DNA into the med/securiry records. If not… I wouldn’t have to worry about anything… ever. I pushed that thought away.
“Any questions?”
There weren’t any. Senior techs knew that the answers wouldn’t tell anything more.
“Dismissed to find your bunking assignments and to get your kits.”
I slipped into the middle of the group walking toward the assignment screens at the end of the bay. I took my time, but not too much. Being either a jumper or a laggard marked you, and my job was to remain competently unnoticed. My quarters would be on the fifth deck, aft of frame 1340, with the other armorers and weapons techs. I was billeted with another second, Alveres. He was listed as a shield mech.
The supply tech took my ID, swiped it through the scanner. Within a minute, a kit duffel popped up on the conveyor beside him. “Here’s your kit, Bond. Take it to the table there and check it. It should have all your uniforms and insignia. If everything’s there, head up to the ship for your med-scans. Next!”
“Velasques…”
As the tech had said, everything was there, from ship-boots to skintights, all to my measurements. I sealed the duffel, hoisted it onto my shoulder, and headed out of supply and along the passageway to the lock tower. Five of us lined up at the base of the lock tower, waiting as two shipfitters wheeled down a cart that almost rilled the ramp that wound up the tower.
“Can you move any slower?” asked a third ahead of me.
“… lucky you don’t have to manage this,” replied the lead shipfitter. “Flatten you thinner than passageway plastrene.”