Ooops. Better not go into that. But the Boss was in good with the government. He had many and powerful friends in high places. It was okay to throw a little money around, live high, have a good time, as long as you delivered the goods.
Rusty kept sweeping, working his way between high stacks of plastic crates. The overhead lights were few and far between in this part of the ship, and it was getting dark in these narrow aisles.
He heard a sound behind and turned.
Rusty squinted. What was that? Something moving. He stopped. One of the crew, perhaps.
Rusty began to sweep again, but halted. He looked around. Hell, this was clean enough. He started retracing his steps through the maze of aisles between the high stacks.
Squash, squish.
“What the…”
Rusty looked at his shoes. He was standing in a puddle of something.
“Hey, who spilled—? Yuck, what is this stuff?”
Rusty walked through the puddle, made a few turns, and arrived at the cargo bay hatch. He went out into the corridor and flagged down a passing warrant officer.
“Hey, space-guy, know where I can get a mop?”
“Janitorial stuff’s right in that compartment.”
Rusty followed the pointed finger.
“ ‘Space-guy,’” the warrant officer muttered, walking away.
Rusty didn’t find a mop, but this nifty vacuum scrubber would do fine. He hauled the thing back to the cargo bay.
But he couldn’t find the puddle. He searched and searched, threading the maze and becoming more irritated the longer he kept at it. It was gone. Dried up. Or it was just something leaking that flowed away somewhere? In which case, it was the space-guys’ problem, not his. He shrugged and lugged the vacuum scrubber back to the hatch.
As he was leaving he happened to glance back and saw Chicolini coming out of the stacks.
“Hey. Were you back there?”
“I was looking for you.”
Rusty’s coworker wasn’t in character, but then neither was Rusty.
“You know, I didn’t see you when I was … never mind. What’s up? The Boss?”
Chicolini nodded. “He’s getting wild. He’s always wired, never goes out of character. You better go up and see what you can do with him.”
“What can I do with him?”
“You’ve been with him longer, you know him better than I do.”
“Hey, he’s a genius. I’m just a lab tech.”
“Get up to the cabin. If he blows the project, the politicians might want to know what we’ve been spending all the money on. In detail. Get the picture?”
“Got the picture.”
“So, leave. And get into character.”
“Sure. Always do when I’m around the Boss. He hates reality.”
“All humans do.”
Rusty chuckled. “You’re not human?”
“Forget it,” Rusty’s coworker said.
“Hey, by the way, when you were back there, did you step into a puddle of something?”
“Something? What something?”
“Couldn’t see what it was. Something wet and sticky.”
“Forget about it.”
“Hey, it could have been lubrication leaking from one of our crates. What do you mean, forget—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Chicolini said, taking the vacuum scrubber. “You go look after the Boss.”
Rusty shrugged. “Anything you say.”
“And remember to get into character.”
“I’ll switch on before I go in the door.”
“All right, just don’t forget, you know how touchy he is.”
“Sure. See you later.”
“See you. Don’t worry about the leak. I’ll look after it.”
“Okay!”
Rusty jogged off down the corridor, his tattered trench coat trailing and napping.
“I’ll take care of it. Yeah, sure.”
The one called Chicolini retreated into the shadows of the hold.
CHAPTER 4
“… and this is the bridge!”
Wanker picked himself off the deck. As often happened, the pneumatic intraship transport system had dumped him unceremoniously on the deck.
“Never have gotten used to these damned blow tubes. Rotten things.” He dusted himself off. Then he took a good look around.
“Good Lord!”
The bridge was in an even sorrier state than the rest of the ship, littered with half-disassembled components and heterogeneous junk. The usual jungle of hanging wire proliferated, but this particular plastic rain forest was positively tropical. Sections of metal paneling leaned against the bulkheads, and the holes they left exposed a raw chaos of electronic arcana. The various department stations — communications, navigation, and the like — were more or less intact. They were spaced widely apart. The huge plates of armored shielding that would, when battle stations sounded, slide down to further separate and protect each station were stuck halfway. This intensified the sense of cramping and clutter.
The armor-shielding design was an old one. Space warships with up-to-date configurations had no bridge per se, so that one well-placed hit could not “decapitate” a ship’s command and control structure. The various command stations were mobile and widely dispersed within the ship.
Lt. Commander Rhodes was embarrassed. “Sir, we’re undergoing extensive repairs.”
“Commander, you have a penchant for stating the ridiculously obvious. Please continue.”
“Uh, yes, sir, Captain Wanker. As I said—”
“That’s VAHN-ker.”
“Vahnker?
“Yes, it’s German.”
“Oh. I see. Well, Captain Vah—”
“Vahn-ker,” Wanker coached his first officer. “VAHN-ker. Accent on the penultimate.”
“Vahn-ker. Yes, sir. As I said, sir, this is…well, this is the nerve center…you know. The brain.”
“The bridge of the U.S.S. Repulsel” Wanker’s awe was akin to that of a man viewing a vast and messy traffic accident. “The diseased brain of the worst-rated ship in Space Fleet. The nucleus of the pathology, as it were.”
Rhodes, visibly affronted, was nevertheless at pains to be tactful. “Well, sir, all due respect, but I think your characterization is a bit unfair.”
“Unfair?” Wanker took the electronic clipboard that Rhodes carried. “On a ten-point graded scale, this ship scored the following on its last shakedown run: Mechanical Functioning: 4. Overall Efficiency: 2. Combined Personnel Performance Rating: 1.3. Battle Stations Response Time: 1.9. Tactical Maneuvering … Shall I go on, Commander?”
“Well, actually, sir…”
Wanker read on. “Oh, what’s this? Double digits in one category? Wait. Intrafleet Three-Dimensional Checkers Competition.”
“Good for morale, Captain.”
“Then why does the Overall Morale Profile stand at a heartwarming 0.07? There’s more. Battle Readiness Quotient: 0.0006….”
Rhodes said loudly, “No need to go on, sir. Point well taken.”
Wanker shoved the clipboard at him. “Then stop dissembling and start assembling the ship’s officers. I wish to speak with them.”
“Aye-aye, sir. All right, gentlemen and ladies, all hands on deck, step lively. Line up, there.”
The ship’s department chiefs lined up along a narrow gap running through the clutter. They came raggedly to attention.
Wanker looked his crew over and did not like what he saw.
“Motley bunch,” he muttered. Even the attractive blonde had a frowzy, fly-blown look about her.
Wanker stepped forward and promptly tripped over a trailing length of plastic ductwork.
Rhodes helped him up. “Watch your step, sir.”
“Thank you. Damn, it’s messy in here.”
Gingerly he stepped up to the first officer, a short barrel-chested man dressed in tartan kilt and sporan. He had an oversize shaggy red head and a scruffy red beard. Noticing the engineering patch on the man’s shoulder, Wanker said, “The engineer’s a Scotsman. What startling originality.”