Sundowner

by Claremont, Chris

  Nicole matched Canfield’s hawklike glare with one of her own.

  “I’ll send you a postcard, sir.”

  A twitch at the corner of Canfield’s mouth that may have been a smile was echoed by an even slighter one from Nicole.

  “You do that,” Canfield told her. There was a nod, and a shift in expression around the eyes, and Nicole knew that if they’d been alone, the General would have embraced her. Then, Canfield turned on her heel, took formal leave of Hobby and his staff, and was gone, with Ramsey Sheridan hustling along behind as she gave him the last of his marching orders.

  “Nicole!” It was Amy. Before Nicole could respond—when what she wanted most to do was ignore the girl—Captain Hobby demanded her attention.

  “Ms. Shea,” he said with a slight turn towards Amy to forestall any protest at the interruption. “If you’ll go with Lieutenant Braeden, Ms. Cobri”—he indicated the JayGee who’d escorted Nicole from reception—“he’ll see you settled in your quarters.”

  Amy had other ideas, but Braeden took his cue from Hobby and put himself between her and the Captain. She couldn’t object without staging a scene and decided instantly to let this pass.

  “Interesting girl,” Hobby mused, watching her go.

  “You got no idea,” growled Hana.

  “It’s a big ship, Dr. Murai, and a bigger service,” he said, “but ultimately we’re all part of a surprisingly small community.”

  Hana shot a glance to Nicole, wondering if he was fishing for information or telling them he already knew, but got no response. This was Hobby’s turf—in effect, Hobby’s game—Nicole would leave the active gambits to him.

  “Lot more ship and people than I’ve ever been a part of,” Nicole said, halfway musing, “sir.”

  “They’ll take some getting used to, true. But that’s what we do in space, yes? Adapt. NASA is a combined service—in this case, a crew that comprises not simply the entire spectrum of the American military but of over a dozen other countries as well. Plus civilians. To avoid confusion, we arbitrarily operate under a specific organizational hierarchy.”

  “Naval?”

  “Precisely. Tradition dictates there be only one Captain. So, for the duration of your term aboard, you’ll hold a temporary increase in grade to Major. All of the authority and responsibility”—he grinned suddenly—“but none of the pay.”

  “Doesn’t seem quite fair.”

  “What’s the old saying, Dr. Murai, ‘TANJ’?”

  “ ‘There ain’t no justice.’ Typical military mentality.”

  “My self-appointed mouthpiece notwithstanding, sir,” Nicole said, “I have no objection.”

  “Didn’t think so, Major.”

  Nicole couldn’t help herself, she liked the sound of the new rank.

  Hobby held out a hand, and a small jewelry box, for Nicole. Inside were a pair of gold oak leaves.

  “The rest you can get from Stores,” he told her, “but these should get you off to a good start.”

  “Were they yours, sir?”

  “No.” He smiled, his expression shadowed, as though touched by a surprise memory. “But they have a history. I hope you do well by them.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir. Thank you.”

  Hobby turned towards the pyramid and called to the Officer of the Deck.

  “Mr. Rossmore, status?”

  The Commander bent over his console, scrolled through its main sequence displays, spoke into his boom microphone.

  “PreLaunch Checklist in progress, Captain,” he said when he’d seen and heard what he needed to know. “Telemetry nominal, flight systems green across the board. Ramp reports that General Canfield and party are aboard and her vehicle is cycling for lift-off.”

  “Thank you.” His attention returned to Nicole. “I want you in SecCom when we light up the Runway. You’re familiar with the procedures?”

  “Fully rated, sir.” But—Mary Mother of God, she thought desperately, only in a bloody simulator!

  “You’ll be running a parallel checklist, monitoring the Bridge. You’ll have no active linkage with the C3 systems unless we go off-line but you’re expected to yell blue murder if you spot a glitch.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Then what are you waiting for, Major? We don’t go without you giving us the green light.”

  Nicole and Hana were assigned a Marine to show them the way. The Sergeant set a brisk pace and even Nicole’s long legs felt the beginnings of a burn as she hurried to keep up.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier cutting straight across the globe,” Hana wondered aloud as they made their way along the main corridor, “than going all the way around like this?”

  “In distance, probably so, ma’am,” the Sergeant replied, the cadence of her words as sharply clipped as those of her feet, “but a lot more effort.”

  “Think about it, Hana,” Nicole said, a trifle daunted herself by the realization. “Climbing down a half-mile flight of stairs, then climbing up.”

  “They don’t got elevators, they don’t got slidewalks?”

  “We do indeed,” the Marine told them, “but they get jammed up more often than the skipper likes. And new crew, he prefers they learn to find their way around on their feet. Like that test the London taxi drivers take, y’know...?”

  “The ‘Knowledge,’ ” Hana said.

  “Is that what they call it? Well, same difference, I guess. If all you know are the lifts and rollers, and the Directory FlashMaps, how you gonna cope when the system crashes?”

  “The system crashes?”

  “Not for real, not yet. But the skipper, he does love to pop his drills. This bucket’s his, ma’am, heart and soul, but I don’t think he’ll ever be comfortable aboard her. Too many conflicting elements—y’know, dependents and the like. Add the fact that we’re the first ship of a new class, with all the attendant teething troubles. Add your ‘Fuzzies.’ ”

  “I don’t like that term, Sergeant,” Nicole said casually, but with a ghost of frost that let the Marine know she was utterly serious.

  “Meant no disrespect, Major. We’re jarheads an’ proud of it, we got insults for everybody.”

  “Among your own, that’s your business. Just use some discretion elsewhere.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “You ever serve with a Hal, Sergeant?”

  “Never seen one, sir, except in pictures.”

  “They’re very proud and their sense of humor isn’t at all like ours.”

  The Marine stopped and faced them. Nicole kept her face expressionless but she was grateful for the break. She hadn’t been marched so fast since the Academy.

  “Is the Major suggesting that we establish some ground rules, the Hal and us, before we get to raggin’ on ’em?”

  “They give as good as they get, Sergeant. I understand about learning that the hard way. Just be careful nobody gets hurt.”

  “Captain Hobby wouldn’t like that at all.”

  “Goes without saying. Nor me, neither.”

  The Sergeant spared Nicole a long look, then straightened to attention and snapped a parade ground salute.

  “Understood, Major. This is SecCom, sir, we’ve arrived.”

  They were expected—Nicole suspected their progress had been monitored the whole way and wondered if the surveillance had included their conversation as well—but they still had to submit to the full security regime before being admitted through the massive airlock.

  The two chambers—Primary and Secondary Command—were twins, from the vaulting display overhead to the layout of the consoles. Nicole spared a quick glance at the “sky” when they entered; the stars were different, the view that which you’d see from a true world’s South Pole rather than a replication of what was being screened up-top. All the stations, she noticed, were occupied. As she and Hana approached the pyramid, a bluff-bodied figure—shorter and much stockier than the two women, especially clad as he was in an armored suit—descended to greet them. Emblazo
ned on the biceps, right below the national flag, were the two and a half stripes of a Lieutenant Commander, the naval equivalent of Nicole’s new rank.

  “Welcome to the back brain of the dinosaur,” he announced cheerily. “I’m Tom Pasqua.”

  “Nicole Shea,” she replied, in kind. He had a firm grip. Hana introduced herself and Pasqua waved them up the steps to the Throne.

  “What’s with?” Hana asked, about the suit, while Nicole noted that the personnel seated at the four Second Tier consoles, a step below the Throne, were in fully sealed pressure suits.

  “Never can tell what’ll work and what won’t,” Pasqua replied, “hope for the one, prepare for the other. Can’t assume there’ll be time to jump into one of these if we have a catastrophic event.”

  “But not everyone here’s wearing a suit.”

  Pasqua shrugged—or at least tried to, as much as his armor would allow. “Wouldn’t be practicable, for operating the consoles or wear and tear on the gear. A cadre in Damage Control stands each watch in full suits; during major maneuvering, we expand that to the Systems Managers here in SecCom. By rights, Major, you sit the Throne, you wear what I’m wearing. This time, I’m here to cover, just in case.”

  “And I thought Wanderer was a beast,” Hana muttered.

  Pasqua laughed. “No comparison, Dr. Murai.”

  “I’m Hana.”

  “Tom.” He looked over to Nicole. “Got to sit sometime, Major... ”

  “Nicole.”

  “Nicole, then. Especially when you’re keeping the skipper waiting.”

  She shook her hands, to snap some tension out of them, then took the proffered chair.

  It was comfortable, and got more so almost immediately, as its sensors shaped the bellows cushions to the contours of her back.

  “This is very nice,” she couldn’t help noticing, buckling the four-point restraint across her torso.

  “Considering how long some folks have to sit there, and what they have to do, creature comforts are an absolute necessity. If it feels a little big on the flanks, remember that’s because it’s also intended to accommodate someone dressed like me. Lay your arms on the side panels, would you, where they’d naturally fall.”

  Nicole did so, and the chair continued to adjust itself to her, sliding the control pads along their track until they rested under her fingers.

  “Satisfied?” Pasqua asked, a couple of minutes later, after completing the last series of adjustments.

  “Pretty much perfect.”

  “Not quite. You’ll need to make modifications, we all do, but that comes through usage and experience. You can swing the chair two ways, either manually”—which Nicole did, by a light touch on the appropriate toggle—“or automatically, which is to say the chair will orient itself towards whatever you’re looking at. Better take a couple of steps back, Dr. Murai,” he cautioned, and Hana followed his suggestion, “the ride on auto can be a little wild, until you get used to it.”

  Nicole wasn’t sure what he meant until, at Pasqua’s suggestion, she looked towards her friend. Immediately the chair spun right to match her line of sight. She looked up at the ceiling, and the chair tilted and flattened obediently to make that easier for her. None of this happened at any ferocious speed, for which she was thankful, and she suspected that was solely for her benefit.

  “Anyone ever get sick doing this?”

  “Sooner or later, everybody.”

  “I wondered about those bags clipped to the side, plain old-fashioned barf buckets, who woulda thought?”

  “Your turn will come, Hana,” grumped Nicole.

  “What we’ll do now,” Pasqua said to close out the briefing, “is imprint the configuration in the chair’s memory and in the ship’s main data nexus; that way, every time you come on watch, this’ll be ready and waiting for you.

  “Constitution, Pasqua,” he called, pressing the com switch amid the bank of controls imbedded in the left forearm of his suit.

  Nicole didn’t hear any reply but there must have been one because Pasqua pointed at her.

  “Headset,” he said.

  She tucked the earphone in her left ear and plugged the jack into the chair.

  “State your name, please,” she heard the ship’s neutral, vaguely female computer-generated voice tell her. “Family name, first.” This, she knew, was to establish a baseline record of her voiceprint.

  “Shea, Nicole.”

  “Service and status, please.”

  “United States Air Force, Space Command, brevet Major, on assignment to the United States StarShip Constitution.”

  “State personal security password, please.”

  She spoke without thinking, letting instinct dictate the answer.

  “Sundowner.”

  “Access code approved. Access to C3 nexus approved. Network coming on-line.”

  She couldn’t help a gasp of astonishment, mingled with outright surprise, as a glittering holographic HUD field popped into being right in front of her. It was starting from scratch, a basic systems boot, and she had to suffer through the display of its pedigree, hard- and software, before finally being released to the main menu.

  “Very nice,” she heard Hana murmur from over her right shoulder. A glance backward showed her friend leaning on the chair. Pasqua flanked her on the other side, standing near the edge of the dais. He’d donned gloves and helmet, life support courtesy of a ROVER backpack. There was a yelp of surprise from both women as the chair began to swing, Hana jumping back almost to the safety rail like a startled cat.

  “Shit, oh, shit!” Nicole tapped the selector back to Manual, then asked Hana, “You okay?”

  Hana looked down at herself, to see the HUD splayed around and across her midsection, then back to Nicole as she dead-panned, “Shall I move?”

  “Allow me,” Nicole said with a weak grin, and pivoted the chair clear. She couldn’t see Pasqua’s face behind his visor and for that she was supremely glad, even though she was sure the story was already making the rounds. Probably laughing themselves sick up in PriCom, she told herself, not to mention wondering what the Captain could be thinking of giving me this chair.

  “One of the benefits of the Alliance,” Pasqua said over the radio, as though nothing untoward had happened. “The Hal are a generation or more ahead of us in optical technology, especially holographic imaging.”

  “Our stardrive’s better.” Hana, for Nicole’s ears alone.

  “More powerful,” Nicole agreed, without transmitting back to Pasqua, keeping this exchange private, “but I’m not sure we’re as good with secondary applications.”

  “Hey, cut the Race some slack, Shea! I mean, we’ve only had the damn thing for less than half a century.”

  “Bugger that, Murai. A half century after Kitty Hawk”—and the legendary first powered flight of the Wright Brothers—“we’d broken the sound barrier and were on our way to the Moon.”

  “On your toes, Ace, your HUD’s blinking.”

  It was a small red bar, at the bottom of the display, alerting Nicole to an incoming call. She opened the channel.

  “SecCom, Bridge.” It was Commander Rossmore and he didn’t sound the type who liked to be kept waiting.

  “SecCom, acknowledged,” Nicole replied.

  “We show you on-line, Major, any reason for the continued delay?”

  “Just sorting through my systems, sir.”

  “We don’t have an unlimited window, Major.”

  “Understood, Commander. If you’ll give me a moment, we’ll be ready.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  “Not a happy camper,” from Hana, a comment which Nicole didn’t need right now, or much care for.

  “Tom,” she called, clearing a parallel line to him, “how do I address the ship?”

  “By her name, of course.”

  Of course, Nicole thought sourly. Nothing like missing the obvious, even if she wasn’t used to ships that talked back.

  “Constitution, Se
cCom,” she said formally.

  “State access code, please.”

  “Sundowner.”

  “Acknowledged, Sundowner.”

  “Display launch sequence main menu on my station, and light up the Runway.”

  “There is insufficient graphics capability at your station to comply with your second request, Sundowner. The Runway can only be presented on the main overhead display.”

  Nicole closed her eyes and sighed—frustration mingled with a pinch of anger at herself for once more missing the obvious, forgetting what she already knew.

  “Slave-link SecCom main display to the Bridge, please, and light up the Runway.”

  “Compliance.”

  It was like watching magic. Before their eyes, the stars came down off the ceiling to float in midair, aligned about the images of the Sun, the Earth and Moon, and the Constitution herself. The details appeared perfect: off in the distance, the Sun formed a bubbling globe of raw fire, casting prominences off its surface with wild abandon, while in stark and absolute contrast, the Earth’s dayside glowed a cool and glorious blue against the darkness. The Moon was in opposition from Nicole’s perspective, masked from sight by the bulk of its mother planet. The Constitution was closest to her, the false perspective of the display making the ship appear as large to Nicole as the planet and star beyond. A few inches out from the surface, and moving farther every moment, was Canfield’s cruiser, identity confirmed by a floating data window right beside it.

  She felt the beginnings of a smile tweak the outer edges of her mouth and gently thumbed the control toggle, rotating the orientation of the display—prompting a cry of pure delight from Hana behind her—to bring the Sun around until it was floating right overhead, just beyond her reach. It was the size of a beach ball, about half a meter in diameter, and for a long few seconds all Nicole could do was stare in wonderment. She’d worked with holographic displays her whole career—most initial training these days was run through Virtual Reality—but somehow, and very much to her surprise, this moment had a quality to it she’d only felt once before, when she and her Wanderer crew boarded the Hal StarShip Range Guide.

  A magnificent prominence exploded from the surface, a curling whip of fire that in reality was climbing better than a hundred thousand miles from the solar surface. Here, it merely flicked the air a hairbreadth beyond Nicole’s nose. The flare was so sudden, so fast, so close, Nicole couldn’t help jumping in her chair, but at least she managed to stifle any outcry.