My whole life is here, he thought, aware of lingering sadness. If the Cornuelle dies, all this will be gone.
Hadeishi sat cross-legged on the tatami, picking up a hand-held comp. The pad came alive with his touch, displaying a set of ship schematics. Frowning, Mitsu considered the builder's diagrams for a standard-issue Tyr refinery. What a monster, he thought — and not for the first time — panning through screen after screen of floorplans. We could almost fit the Cornuelle into the main boat bay. The thought was amusing, but not helpful. He narrowed the view displayed on the pad to those sections housing the meteoroid defense system.
"Looks like an old Koningsborg-class battle cruiser point-defense array," he said wryly aloud after a half hour of examination. Finding the circuits had taken some effort — the sheer size of a Tyr made finding a single system difficult. "Hmm. But spread out over far more surface area."
He paused, brow furrowing in thought. How big is the crew for this leviathan?
Another hour passed before Mitsu found something like a crew-requirements list. Then he raised an eyebrow in cautious surprise.
Thai-i HuГ©mac slid down a gangway ladder into first platoon's sleeping deck and found the narrow room unexpectedly crowded. A small, wiry man with prominent cheekbones and the coppery-bronze coloring typical of the Tlaxcallan highlands, the senior Marine lieutenant went unnoticed for a moment. A crowd of Marines in off-duty fatigues, all hulking backs and shoulders, filled the walkway between rows of bunks on either side. Smoke curled against the ceiling and bit the eyes of the men lying on the top, staring avidly down at something in the middle of the barracks.
HuГ©mac stood quietly for a moment, cataloging the number of violations of shipside regulation visible to his experienced eye. He was impressed by the hushed, pregnant silence filling the room. The senior lieutenant had been wondering where all of second platoon had dissapeared too, but now he guessed the entire Marine contingent on the Cornuelle was packed into this one compartment.
A single voice, hoarse and pleading, rose above the quiet susurration of so many men and women breathing. "Oh great lord, oh gracious master, blessed Five Flowers. Look on these poor, pitiful subjects, see their smooth black bodies, their empty eyes, count the holes in their bellies. See them, see the four houses, see the black squares and the red. Please, master of flowers, giver of gifts, fickle one! Bless these five subjects, give them swift legs, strong hearts and every mercy!"
HuГ©mac rolled his eyes — but only because not a single Marine could see his reaction — and swung nimbly up onto the nearest rack of bunks. Carefully bending low under the pipes and conduits and cable guides crowding the ceiling, he stepped over a half-dozen men to look down into the common area at the center of the deck. None of the Marines on the top bunks paid him any attention, save Heicho Tonuac, who was reading an illustrated malinche titled The Tribulatory Life of Leda and her Swan while chewing gum. The corporal stiffened to attention as the lieutenant stepped over him.
At the middle of the room there was an open space where two facing sets of bunks had been folded back into the walls. HuГ©mac grasped hold of a return-air pipe and leaned out, looking down upon three men and one woman sitting on the floor below. Between them was a woven mat in the shape of a cross. Red and blue ceramic markers were scattered along a track of squares, filling each arm of the cross.
The woman was watching the man opposite her with a bored expression. In turn, he was rubbing both hands together, his voice now a mumble, a click-click-click sound rising up among the slowly curling trails of incense and tobacco smoke. Both men were staring sickly at the arrangement of the counters on the mat. HuГ©mac squinted a little and pursed his lips in appreciation. Five solid red tokens had reached safety in the house of the Rising Sun, five blue in the house of the Moon. One red disc remained, sitting a very likely three squares from exiting the board in victory. One blue token lagged behind, an almost impossible ten squares from journey's end.
HuГ©mac had played a little patolli in his time, but the pile of pay chits mounded up before the woman was of truly legendary size. The thai-i repressed a sigh. I have got to convince the captain to sign off on promoting Felix to sergeant… Then the little burgundy-haired woman would be forced to limit her shipboard gambling income to the other sergeants and the officers. Who might show a tiny shred of sense…and stay far away from her.
Gambling — particularly on patolli or tlachco competitions — was an entirely legal expression of religious piety throughout the Empire, which pleased the Marines and sailors in Fleet to no end. Even the foreigners were only too happy to offer up incense, maize and pulque to Macuilxohitl Five-Flower on payday, hoping to gain the god's blessing in matters of chance.
Down on the floor, the man praying suddenly seized the five polished beans in his right hand and cast them onto the mat with a flick of his wrist. HuГ©mac shook his head — throwing all five as 'spots' and doubling the roll to ten squares was entirely unlikely — no matter what promises the private made to Five-Flower. Throwing a one, two or three — any of which would help Felix, or even let her move the last token from the board and win — were far more likely.
The little black beans bounced, rattled and came to a stop. Private Martine was crouched on his hands and knees, muttering fervently. Three spots, two black.
"Face!" the private groaned. A hiss of indrawn breath filled the compartment as he advanced his blue token. Seven squares seemed an impossible distance. Felix reached out, nose twitching in amusement and scooped up the beans.
She did not pray or rub the beans. They left her hand with a simple flip and scattered across the mat. "Oh," she said in an aggrieved voice, "only eyes."
Her red token advanced two squares. One to go. Martine snatched up the beans and tried to match Felix's offhand toss. The beans scattered and rolled. Most turned up white. Four of them.
"Very good," Felix said, tucking wine-red hair back behind her ears. "Box is very good."
Martine gave her a sick look; blunt, chipped fingers sliding his blue token ahead. Three squares left. Felix gathered up the beans, smiled at the private and let them roll out in a lazy-seeming flip. They bounced on the mat, spinning, and four came up dark, one white. "Snake," Felix said, and removed her last piece from the board.
Martine stared hollow-eyed at the treacherous beans. His squadmates stared at him. Felix shoveled pay chits into an embroidered leather bag ornamented with a hand-stitched picture of a Scorpion ground-effect tank on the side. There was a tense silence. Perched above the tableau, HuГ©mac schooled his face to impassivity and then — when the men behind Martine fully grasped they'd lost their last month's pay in a single game of patolli — he dropped lightly to the floor beside corporal Felix.
"Officer on deck!" someone bawled in fear and surprise. "Attention!"
Twenty-five men scrambled to adopt something approaching proper posture. Even Felix was on her feet, the embroidered bag already hidden inside her field jacket. Martine was looking rather pale, his squadmates pressing around him on either side.
"At ease," Thai-i HuГ©mac announced, back straight as the vanadium core barrel on a squad shipgun. "Private Martine, whose mat and beans are these?"
"Mine, sir." The Marine swallowed and managed to stiffen to attention. More than one pair of surreptitious hands helped him. A squad had to stick together in the face of enemy fire.
HuГ©mac looked consideringly at Felix, who was not smiling but was very, very attentive. "Do you even own a patolli mat, corporal?"
"Sir," Felix said in a very earnest voice, "I do not."
HuГ©mac tried not to smile. Sometimes you have to play these things out, as a public lesson. "Do you like to play patolli, corporal? Are you a gambling woman?"
"No, sir," Felix said with an entirely straight face. "I never gamble."
The senior lieutenant looked around at the goggling faces of the Marines crowded into the barracks. Most of them were on the verge of apoplexy, though HuГ©mac could make out
one or two — including the relaxed Heicho Tonuac and his pamphlet — who were trying not to grin. Squadmates, the lieutenant recognized, or men who'd bet on Felix rather than on poor Martine. HuГ©mac returned his attention to the sallow-looking private.
"Private Martine," he said very patiently. "Did you invite Heicho Felix to join your game of patolli? Is this your mat, token and beans?"
"Yes, sir." Martine's voice was very faint. He appeared to be having trouble focusing on the lieutenant's face.
"I see." HuГ©mac raised his voice, so everyone in the compartment could hear. "I am sure Heicho Felix only joined your game to be polite. I understand she does not like to gamble. I suggest in the future, you scrupulously respect her wishes in this matter. Private, you should pick up your patolli board before someone steps on it."
HuГ©mac stood there, stone-solid, until the crowd of Marines began to break up. They were glum, shamefaced and broke. Inwardly, he sighed in despair. What was Martine thinking? He knows Fourth Squad lost all of their money last month!
"Felix — you stay right here." The senior lieutenant did not turn, but he could feel the corporal freeze in her tracks and then resume a parade rest. HuГ©mac waited, thumbs hooked into the back of his uniform belt, until the Marines had returned to their usual pursuits. Only Heicho Tonuac was still watching the senior lieutenant out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to read. HuГ©mac turned, eyes narrowing to black slits, a hint of the steady anger he felt showing in his face. Felix stiffened, lips compressing into a bare rose-colored line. "The chu-sa," he said quietly, "in his infinite, godlike wisdom has tapped your squad, corporal, for some extracurricular activity. Normally, Gunso Fitzsimmons would be here to take on preparatory duties, but he is absent. So you will run every single man in your unit through a full workup on their combat z-armor, ship-to-ship assault gear and secure comm tech. Weapons is running up a simulator pack for you. I'd guess you'll have a couple days to run through the scenario."
HuГ©mac almost smiled. "You'll be assault leader, Felix, so I will be watching you very closely. Your squad will have a 'hot' target and I dislike losing men. The chu-sa will be paying close attention to how you do in the sim."
"Yes, sir!" Felix was starting to look almost as pale as Martine, though the thai-i knew the young Marine was aware of what was coming, where the foolish private had been led blindfolded to the butcher's block. "May the corporal ask a question, sir?"
"Go on." HuГ©mac tilted his head to one side, watching tiny beads of sweat begin to collect along the woman's hairline. He wondered how quickly a betting pool would start, wagering on the exercises in the sim. Within the hour, he supposed. Maybe by the time I leave the compartment.
"Who…who will be running opposition in the sim, sir?"
The senior lieutenant's smile widened, showing a full set of perfect white teeth. "Sho-sa Kosho has been assigned that role, corporal."
"Sir?!" Felix blurted, her face ashen. "The Wind-knife, sir? She'll — "
"She'll what?" HuГ©mac asked curiously.
Felix seemed unable to speak and HuГ©mac watched with interest while the Marine recovered her composure. Something like real dread had penetrated the corporal's usually unflappable demeanor.
"Nothing, sir." Felix stiffened to attention again. "Have mission guidelines been posted?"
"I have them," HuГ©mac replied, his bronzed face once more composed. "You'll find them…challenging, I think. But Chu-sa Hadeishi has expressed great faith in your abilities, Heicho Felix. I hope you do not disappoint him."
"Thank you, sir." Felix started to look pale again. Her voice had strangled itself into a squeak. "Hadeishi-tzin asked for me?"
HuГ©mac nodded gravely, a peculiar glitter in his dark eyes. "He did. He thinks you're lucky."
Outbound from Ephesus III
"Still nothing…" Magdalena was curled up in a nest of Navy-issue blankets over-flowing the captain's chair on the bridge of the Palenque. Slitted yellow eyes watched another set of scan data unspool on a secondary v-pane. There was plenty of noise, static and ghostly warbling filling the comm bands down on the planetary surface. But there was a singular lack of recognizable traffic on Imperial and Company channels. "Parker, can you switch on the main array? Just for an hour or two?"
There was a grunt from behind her and the Hesht tilted her head back far enough to see one of the human's legs hanging out of a ceiling tile. Though the Navy engineer had managed to get the ship underway, the bridge systems of the Palenque were still mostly down. Coils of conduit, cable and guide-sheathing were exposed everywhere. Very few systems were working. There was no heat, no light. Other than the cold, the Hesht was very comfortable in the cavernlike space.
"Parker…" Magdalena began a harsh, throbbing growl at the back of her throat.
There was a scraping sound and the human pilot's face appeared in an opening between two of the tiles. Light from a glowbean shone around his balding head. "Miss Cat," he said, sounding wrung out, "the main comm array is shut down, turned off and locked out by order of our dear judge. If you want it active, you will have to persuade Stoneface down in Engineering."
"He eats moss," Magdalena replied, ears twitching. Finely napped black fur curled back from her fore-incisors and she let an inch of claw expose on her left hand — just for a moment. "Rrrrrr…they could be in trouble dirtside. Another pack might have them cornered. Her leg could be broken, she could be caught in the open, exposed!"
Parker sighed and crawled backward out of the overhead. His forearms were crisscrossed with scars and dried blood. Working in such an old ship was wearing on mind and body alike. He swung for a moment, feeling the gentle tug of the ship's acceleration, then dropped to the deck. Palenque was underway, engines barely lit, in a long corkscrew orbit out from the planet. In another five days, the pilot figured, she would be far enough away to switch to full power. Then — if Isoroku and his Marine helpers were really working down in Engineering, not drinking themselves insensible — the ship might be able to achieve gradient and enter hyperspace.
"Maggie…" Parker stumbled into the navigator's chair and wedged one thin shoulder into a space between two of the supports. The shockchair's heavy, plush seatback had been eaten, leaving nothing but a cage of metal strips. He reached for the pack of tabac in his shirt pocket and found only empty waxed paper., Crap. No smoke. "I know Gretchen's your packleader now and all — I know that's important to you — but she's gone off on her own…thing."
The Hesht did not look at him, once more encased in a suspicious number of blankets. Parker blinked, then stared at a blue sleepbag tucked in behind her. "Is that my sleepbag? It is. You stole my sleepbag! Give over!"
"Rrr! I'm cold, monkey! You're not. You're working. When you go to your den to sleep, I'll let you have it back."
"So — is all your fur for show or something?" Parker crushed waxed paper in his fist. "You're…plushy. But you're cold all the time. I don't understand."
"Heshukan," Magdalena said, baring the tips of her incisors, "was a warm, dry world."
"Oh." Parker started to hunt through his pockets for something else to smoke.
"You're out of bitter, smelly leaves," Magdalena said, staring moodily at the v-pane. Still nothing but static and garbage. She turned off the feed and began flipping through the various comm systems available to her. Most were dead and dark. "Maybe the hunters have some."
"Ask the Marines?" Parker rubbed his face wearily. "They were cadging from me yesterday. Stupid — why give them away? Have I lost my mind? I should have sold them, or kept them for myself!" The pilot pushed himself out the chair and gestured at Magdalena. "I'm crashing. Give me my bag."
Brow and nose wrinkled up in a grimace, the Hesht scooted to one side and let Parker recover his sleepbag.
"Agh. It smells like piss!" The pilot held his bag at arm's length, mouth pursed.
"You don't want it?" One of Magdalena's paws licked out and snagged the bottom of the bag with a curving white claw. "I m
ade it smell proper, like a denblanket should."
"I do want it!" Parker snatched the bag back. He shook his head, then made his way carefully off the bridge, bag trailing behind him like a fat blue tail.
Magdalena hissed at his retreating back and then rummaged around, adjusting her blankets. When she was done, the Hesht resumed paging through the comm channels. Her mood was even fouler than before.
Bandao arrived an hour later, two bulky packages under one arm, and found the bridge dark and cold, save for Magdalena in her nest, with four v-panes casting a chill gray light on her face. Maggie ignored him. She was busy keying commands into the system in one pane while the others were filled with closely spaced documentation or remote console feeds. Her moodiness had departed, replaced by a near-maniacal concentration on the work before her. Bandao took no notice of the slight and began hunting around under the command deck.
After a few moments, he found what he was looking for and plugged a field heater into a power socket under the navigator's station. Five seconds later, the olive-colored unit woke up and began to radiate a warm, dry heat into the area around the captain's chair.
"Two and four are stabilized," Magdalena muttered under her breath. Her claws made a constant, rattling click-click-click on the control panel. If she were a human, she would be sweating. If she were Parker, there would be a cloud of smoke like a forest fire around her.
Studiously ignoring the Hesht, Bandao paced around to the opposite side of her chair, installed a second unit and then disappeared back into the dark passageway leading into the main hab ring. Magdalena showed no sign of noticing his brief visit.
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