Coming out the starboard side of the lock, she couldn't dog the hatches behind her, but she put a line of tactape under each pull, shutting the hatches so the next user would have to pull them open.
It was pure guess which corridor the slack Environmental crew would be in, but in either case she should be able to find them before the midshift bell . . . and if she didn't, they'd respond to that with the usual report. She opened the service hatch at the end of the starboard compartment and found—as she should—nothing but the great rounded haunch of one of the settling tanks. She closed the hatch carefully, and headed back forward as quietly as possible, listening for anything but the heavy heartbeat of the pumps, the whoosh and gurgle of liquids, the hiss and bubble of gas exchange.
Outboard, on her right, were transparent tubes and containers glowing green or blue or amber with the various cultures in them . . . brightly backlit by the lights that optimized their growth. Beyond, the gleaming curves of more pipes, pumps, countercurrent exchange chambers. Beyond—invisible from here—were the honeycomb tricklebeds. Settling tanks aft, mixing tanks forward.
Inboard, the space from deck to overhead was filled with the secondary atmospheric system . . . canisters, pipes . . . and the food processing sections, neat rectangles of hydroponic beds.
Heris sniffed. Environmental was, arguably, the smelliest place on a ship. A healthy system smelled like a spring day in the country on a well-terraformed planet: a rich mix of odors from musky to astringent, but nothing actually unpleasant. The best environmental techs she'd known could diagnose a problem with just a quick sniff, recognizing at once which sludge chamber or bacterial strain was out of kilter.
Here—her nose wrinkled involuntarily—among all the yeasty, earthy, pungent odors that belonged here was an acrid one . . . a scorched smell, as if a cook had singed not just a steak, but his beard. She sniffed her way toward it, reminded incongruously of Bunny Thornbuckle's foxhounds—was this how they felt, tracking a fox?
Acrid, yes . . . and faintly metallic. Now she could hear a different sound, a hissing followed by a soft roar. Her mind rummaged through a library of smells and sounds; she could almost see it at work . . . then it came to her. Brazing? Soldering? Something with a little blowtorch and lengths of tubing. Something that was never done here on Environmental, because . . . she strained for the memory of a text she'd read . . .
Voices, now: "But, sir, the manual says—"
"Corporal, do you see these stripes?"
"Yes, sir." A very unhappy corporal. A corporal who knew the manual. "But, sir, if the metal vapor comes in contact with—"
"Just do it!" said the angry older voice.
Heris moved fast, and saw them, a cluster of figures around one of the pipes connecting two chambers. "STOP!" she said. "Don't move," she added in a quieter voice.
"Who's that?" asked the older voice. "What are you doing down here? This is a restricted area!"
"Not to me, it's not," Heris said. She had the satisfaction of seeing the man's eyes widen and his face go pale. A petty major . . . Dorson, by his nametag.
"Comman—er . . . Captain. Sorry, sir. I thought it was one of the ratings sneaking about . . ."
"Turn off that torch, Corporal Acer," Heris said, to the equally pale-faced young man. He complied, with a quick glance at the petty major.
"Now suppose you explain to me why you were about to use that torch on this equipment," Heris said to Dorson.
"Well . . ." with a poisonous glance at the corporal. "This man found a drip in the line. It dripped last shift, too, and I'd had him put some glub on it, but it was dripping again. So I told him to get the torch out and put a proper patch."
"I see. Corporal, explain your objection."
"Captain, this is a new joint, just installed at the refit. There's always a bit of a problem with new installations, a little drip, but the way Chief Kostans taught me to handle it was to glub it until the sediment has a chance to build in. That cushions it against pump surge, too, where a rigid fix wouldn't. But more than that, you don't want to put metal vapor onto this stuff—it eventually corrodes the line, and then you're in worse trouble."
"Petty Major Dorson, how long have you been in shipboard Environmental?"
"Shipboard, Captain? Never, really. My main speciality is administration, records division; I guess they put me on this list because I've been keeping the regional headquarters files on environmental issues up to date."
That figured. "And on the basis of that lack of experience, you saw fit to overrule a man who's actually been doing this job?"
Dorson flushed. "I didn't see where it could do any harm . . ."
"Petty Major Dorson, can you explain why the aft personnel lock hatches were jammed open, and the sensor blanked?"
His jaw dropped. "I—I—what's wrong with that? As long as both the aft and forward locks are fully open, then the pressure equalizes . . ."
Out of the corner of her eye, Heris could see the corporal's not quite successful attempt to hide his reaction to this.
"The point of the locks," Heris said, "is so the pressure won't equalize—so that a problem on one side does not get to the other."
"But we're not in combat—they only close the section hatches in combat—"
Heris took a deep breath, and turned to Acer. "Corporal, rack that torch where it belongs and go secure the forward personnel lock; I've secured the aft already. If you see other personnel, say nothing to them. Pick up the forward log book. Then come back."
"Yes, sir." He practically scampered away, exuding virtue.
Heris turned to the hapless petty officer. "Petty Major Dorson, you know nothing about a real environmental system. You will have to learn. But since you nearly caused a major breakdown which could have had fatal consequences, you are relieved from your duties here. You will begin studying environmental systems with the introductory course, and you will have completed the first two chapters by the end of this shift—I'll expect to see your exam scores above ninety percent, if you want to retain your stripes."
"Yes, sir." He looked more stunned than contrite, but at least he wasn't arguing.
"When you finish the introductory course, you will report to Environmental as an apprentice tech—only because we are short-handed with real techs—and you will obey the orders of anyone who has more experience. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." She looked up to see Corporal Acer approaching. "Corporal, what are the most recent readings?"
Now he looked embarrassed. "Most recent? I guess that would be—"
"I don't want guesses, Corporal. Let's see that log book." She glanced at the last page. "Is that your signature, Corporal?"
"Yes, Captain."
"I see that you've recorded all values as nominal—I presume that means you checked every gauge and every readout . . ."
"Er . . . no, sir. Not all of them."
"In other words, you falsified the log?" He shot a quick glance at the petty officer, then gulped and answered. "Yes, sir; I initialled that entry, and yes, sir, I signed off on checks I hadn't made."
Heris folded the log book and tapped it against her leg. They both looked as if they would much rather be facing an open airlock than her, and that's exactly how she wanted them to feel.
"We have two problems here," she said finally. "We have incompetence attempting to rest on rank alone for authority, and we have competence choosing to be dishonest. Frankly, I have no use for either, but this is a war, and I'm stuck with you. We can deal with this at Captain's Mast, or we can deal with this here and now. It's up to you."
"Now, if the Captain wishes." That was the corporal; the petty officer just nodded.
Heris cocked her head at him. "Corporal, I don't know why you zanged that log. You may think you had a good reason—" She paused, to see if he would try to produce an excuse, but he said nothing. All the better. "But in my books, nothing—nothing at all—justifies lying to your captain, and that's what you did. I'm ex
tremely displeased, and your competence in your specialty does not in any way change that. I'm reducing you to pivot; you'll report to the Exec at first shift and get your records changed." Again she waited.
"Yes, sir," he finally said.
"Petty Major Dorson, I will not tolerate the use of formal rank to cover up ignorance and incompetence. It is not your fault that you were assigned a job you didn't know how to do. It is your fault that you didn't listen to someone who did know. It is a form of dishonesty only slightly less flagrant than the corporal's—pivot's—when you pretend to know what you don't know. I'm reducing you to sergeant; you will also report at the start of first shift to change your records."
"Yes, sir."
"You will find that I promote as readily as I demote, if performance warrants," Heris said. "Don't throw your stripes away. Now, Dorson, go up and get busy on your lessons—use the midships ladder. Pivot, you come with me."
They passed through the forward lock in silence, and in silence walked back aft, Heris watching for the rest of the shift's crew. She found them in a circle, playing cards: three pivots, a pivot major, and another corporal. In one searing blast, she reduced everyone to pivot who wasn't already, and put them all on extra duty—which, for the ones who had no prior Environmental experience, meant shifts spent at the cube reader, getting qualified. When she was through, she turned to Pivot Acer. "You're now in command of this shift. You will see to it that first shift finds all values nominal—and you will keep an accurate log. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir!" His eyes had light in them again.
"If I can find another qualified person, I'll send 'em down; in the meantime, it's up to you to whip this bunch into shape. I believe you can do it."
She was back in her own quarters before she remembered that she hadn't taken off the tactape which would enable her to tell if anyone had sneaked away. She looked at her chronometer . . . only two hours to sleep before she had to be bright and energetic for first-shift business. Sleepy commanders make bad decisions, she told herself, diving under the covers again. After all, tomorrow night, it was the turn of Drives to have a roaming captain in their midst. She could remove the tactape then.
R.S.S. Bonar Tighe
Solomon Drizh, once an admiral minor in the Regular Space Service and now commander in chief of the mutineer fleet, plotted the newest arrival on his chart. They had been unlucky at Copper Mountain; if they'd had the three weeks he'd planned for, all the mutineer ships could have assembled, with sufficient manpower to gain control of the planet and its resources. Luck of war, no use complaining. Here, at least, no accidental passerby should find them. Here he could assemble his fellow mutineers, train them, and create a force that the government could not ignore.
We are hunters, and we hunt the most dangerous of all game—others like ourselves. Lepescu had said that. War is the best test of man, and hunting men is the next best. That, too.
Drizh grinned to himself. Fleet had gone soft, because the government had gone soft. Always seeking peace, always looking for a way out. He'd had hopes of Thornbuckle, when Thornbuckle sent Fleet to rescue his daughter—any excuse for a war was better than no war at all—but then Thornbuckle had died, shot down by a better hunter. The hunt proves your real nature, whether you are prey or hunter. And the new Chairman, Hobart Conselline . . . all he cared about was profit and long life.
"He thinks like a cow," Drizh said aloud.
"Sir?" That was his flag captain, Jerard Montague.
"Conselline," Drizh said. "All belly. But he'll learn; they all will." They would bow at last; they would have to, when the loss of civilian lives rose high enough. Then he would command not just the mutineers but all of Fleet, and Fleet would command the government. No more begging humbly for the cheapest supplies: they would have the best, and no arguments.
"They still have some good commanders," Montague said. "And more ships."
"True, but they don't have our edge. Ship for ship we're superior. Survival through victory—it's the only way. Besides, there are only a few to worry about."
"Serrano?"
"Serrano, yes." For a moment, Drizh allowed himself to regret that Heris Serrano wasn't one of his people. She had the right instincts; she would have been a powerful and valuable ally. But she had destroyed his mentor, exposed Lepescu to the world as a vicious killer, denounced those who followed him. She was an enemy, and he would destroy her, rejoicing in her fall.
He looked again at his charts, and cursed the cowards who hadn't yet shown up as they'd promised. He needed more ships, now, before the loyalists had time to organize an effective defense.
In the meantime, waiting the arrival of the others, he could train this nucleus.
"Tightbeam to all ships," he said. "Close in for drill." A few days of precision drill, the ships as close as possible, would sharpen the crews' reactions immensely. Then gunnery drill, then microjump gunnery . . .
Then the war, and the victory.
Chapter Eight
R.S.S. Rosa Maior
Barin was in the middle of his midshift meal when the alarms whooped again. The task force was still picking up loose mines—a ticklish task even with the help of the specialty minesweeper. The diners seemed to freeze in place for a moment—waiting, he realized, for the announcement that this was another exercise—and then they all lurched into motion. Lieutenant Marcion picked up his bowl and swigged down the rest of his soup, grabbed two rolls, and bolted for the door. Barin eyed the rest of his stew with regret, grabbed rolls for himself, and a hunk of cake from the dessert table, and followed at the double.
He had almost reached his station when he staggered—the artificial gravity had wavered for an instant. That was not a good sign . . . he came around the corner to find Petty Officer O'Neil already in place. He took the list, and began calling names, glad that his voice wasn't shaky or shrill. Everyone had made it to station; Wahn came jogging up just as he got to that name. Barin reported all present up the tube and got a terse acknowledgement; he wanted to ask what was going on, but knew better.
A shrill whistle: the warning for closing the section seals.
"Must have some shield damage," a pivot said, and grinned nervously.
"Less chatter," O'Neil said.
Barin could hear the shuffle of someone's feet on the deck, the soft whirr of the ventilating fans . . . and the sudden clunk-groan of the section seals as they unlocked and moved in their deep grooves. A final echoing thud cut them off from noises elsewhere in the ship. "Check the seals," Barin said. Petty Officer O'Neil told off two of the team for that task and set the others to taking initial readings of the pressure, temperature, artificial gravity, and other factors. "Suit by pairs," Barin said, when the seals had been reported secure. It seemed to take them forever, though he knew the creeping second hand on the chronometer was actually moving at normal speed, and they were suiting up well within the required time.
At last it was his turn; he stepped into the p-suit and found himself remembering a question he'd asked long, long ago. Why, he'd wanted to know, didn't ships carry escape pods for use in disasters? Everyone knew p-suits weren't really protection, not if you were blown out into a seething maelstrom of broken bits and pieces. The marines had hardened combat suits, but the rest of the crew . . . He went on fastening seals and making attachments as he remembered the instructor's answer. There was no way, on a large ship, to provide escape capsules for everyone, and the bulky space combat suits took up too much room, and besides—you shouldn't be thinking about getting out of the ship, but of saving it—keeping it working.
Barin turned so his partner could check his back—the hang of the air cylinders, the attachments of hose and cable—and then checked his partner's. For now they didn't need the suits' air supply. For now, they had air in the compartment. If all went well, they would come out of this hot, sweaty, smelly, but with fully charged tanks. If it didn't—they'd have this small additional chance. He had them all call off their air supply gauges; t
he only one below 100% was Pivot Ghormley, who had predictably forgotten that he was not supposed to turn the airflow on until he needed it. Barin let the petty officer chew Ghormley out and tell him to recharge his tank from the outlet.
With the section sealed off, this team was responsible for damage assessment and control in the starboard aft compartments of Troop Deck. Two open squad bays; four cramped and complicated four-man compartments for NCOs, fitted around essential ship equipment; the shower hall; the heads; a crew lounge with battered couches and cube readers; and—taking up almost half the cubage—half the gymnasium, the other half being cut off by a section seal. Barin sent his team off to take readings in each compartment; he stayed by the command console, from which he could report results, or receive orders.
He felt a lurch in his stomach—the gravity generators again?—and glanced at the gauge nearest him. Sure enough, a two percent negative spike . . . the lights dimmed, then brightened. His team reported the first set of numbers, and Barin forwarded them through his console. A vast shudder rumbled through the deck . . . missile launches. Another.
The Serrano Succession Page 53
