Instead of this, however, Taylor merely said, “Mister President, Panama is getting everything in quantity that we promised. If we are not able, at this time, to produce exactly the quality that we both had wished for, still you are getting generally serviceable equipment that is, in some ways, more suitable for Panama than other, more modern, designs would have been. There is hardly a bridge in the country able to stand up to an M-1 tank, while the Chinese light tanks can not only use the bridges but, being amphibious, they do not always even need to.”
Mercedes shrugged while thinking, The difference, you bloody thieving dolt chumbo, is that if the M-1 tanks you had promised had arrived here I could have sold them to Argentina and Brazil for serious money, bought Chinese and Russian tanks for dirt, and pocketed the difference. And I could have gotten a good price on the ammunition.
“And we are sending Panama a couple of weapons that no one else is getting.”
It was, for some unknown reason, McNair’s habit to sing during gunnery practice. The veterans among the bridge crew knew it from long-standing custom. The few newbies thought it very strange.
He had a decent voice, too, though that did not make it any less odd to the new sailors as he belted out:
The sense of strangeness felt by the new men among the crew was as nothing to what they felt when a strong female voice joined in:
Immediately McNair stopped his own singing and turned towards the strange sound of a female voice on his bridge. What his ears heard, though, was nothing compared to what his eyes saw.
The woman looked real… corporeal, save that few women if any had ever had such an incredible face or body, or breasts that defied gravity so completely. The woman stood there on the bridge, wearing nothing but short-shorts, raggedly cut off, and a polka dot halter — tied in front — that was completely successful in failing to hide two of the most magnificent frontal projections McNair had ever seen. Mesmerized by the sight, it took McNair a few moments to react as a naval officer ought to have.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And how the hell did you get on my ship?
The singing stopped immediately. The image turned a sculpted face towards the captain and answered, “I’m Daisy Mae, Captain. I am your ship.”
Reluctantly, McNair tore his eyes from the general vicinity of the halter, more expressly from the amazing cleavage it created, and ordered, “Well, get in uniform then, dammit.”
The halter and shorts were instantly replaced by navy tans. If anything, the tans made things worse, since the hologram was driven by enough processing capability to adjust for the fact that no size available from Navy stores could possibly contain the magnificent breasts the AID had “borrowed” (well… maybe “enhanced” would be a better word) from an actress who had once played her namesake.
At that McNair looked away and whispered, “Try BDUs.”
When he looked again he saw that the loose-fitting uniform had almost succeeded.
“You’re the AID? The alien device?” he asked.
“I am that, too, Captain.”
“I think we need to talk… in private,” McNair said.
Interlude
The globe thrummed, beating its way through space by main force. As with others aboard, to Guanamarioch the energies consumed were unsettling. As with others, the boredom was not merely annoying but a potential danger. There had already been half a hundred suicides among the Kessentai class aboard the globe.
Some relieved boredom through the reproductive act, though with the normals generally locked away in hibernation the number of potential partners was highly limited. Some, like Guanamarioch, lost themselves in self study. For a highly unusual few there were more structured programs.
In a secluded, private section of the ship, Binastarion held class for his favored children. The senior God King thought this worth doing in itself. That it helped to relieve the horrid boredom of a long trip on a ship only made the activity more attractive.
“Beware, my sons, of the enemy who seems too easily defeated. Beware of the opportunity that is a hidden trap,” Binastarion cautioned the juveniles.
“Once, long ago, long before the People were first driven forth and long before the idiots whose names we do not speak brought our clan low, one of your ancestors and mine, Stinghal the Knower, devised a stratagem.
“Surrounded in the city of Joolon by forces loyal to the old masters, with no hope of relief, with the enemy’s plasma cannon raking his fortress, Stinghal hid his Kessentai and normals deep under buildings. He then piled the rooftops with flammables and set them aflame. The enemy, thinking he saw victory, charged in through every gate and over every wall, heedless of hidden dangers.
“At the right moment, when the enemy was in greatest confusion, Stinghal ordered his followers to come forth. There was a great slaughter.”
The favored son, Riinistarka, tapped his stick — the God King’s sole badge of rank beyond his crest — against his cheek, seeking attention.
“Yes, my eson’antai?” asked Binastarion.
“How does one tell, Father? When you see a city burn, your enemy in seeming disarray, his people in flight, how can you tell if it is real or it is a trap?”
Binastarion thought carefully before giving his answer.
“My son, all I can tell you is that if you have the genes you will be able to tell and if you do not then you probably never will.”
Riinistarka lowered his head. He so hoped he had the genes. He so wanted his father to be proud of him. Yet, he would never know until the day of battle. That was the way of the People, that serious military abilities, if present, showed up for the first time only at need.
I swear by demons higher and lower that if I should not be the sort of son my father needs I will at least die so that my defective genes will not be passed on further.
Chapter 6
Opportunity makes a thief.
Any warship of size had two sets of quarters for the captain. On the Des Moines the captain’s sea cabin, cramped and none too comfortable, sat just behind the armored bridge. It was not much more than a bunk from which the skipper could be awakened in the event he was needed while at sea.
Much more impressive, two decks below and side by side with the ship’s admiral’s cabin, just behind number two turret, were McNair’s port quarters. This was a spacious suite with sleeping, office and dining areas, more suitable for the dignity of a warship’s unquestioned lord and master.
In the suite’s office, a 1/200 scale model of the ship, built by two of Sinbad’s clansmen at McNair’s direction, graced the desk at which the captain sat. It was, in color, the same Navy gray as the ship it simulated. The Indowy had, however, made the captain a very special model. At verbal command, sections of the hull could go transparent, revealing the inner workings of the Des Moines all the way down to the nervous system the Indowy had installed aboard the ship.