Changer of Worlds woh-3

by David Weber

  The steward circled the table, moving through the dining cabin’s cramped confines with the grace of long practice as he poured coffee. Honor had always despised that particular beverage, and she covered her cup with her hand as the steward approached her. The man gave her a quizzical glance, but moved on without comment.

  “Don’t care for coffee, huh?”

  The question came from the senior-grade lieutenant seated to her left, and Honor looked at him quickly. The brown-haired, snub-nosed officer was about Santino’s age, or within a year or two either way. Unlike Santino, however, his expression was friendly and his tone was pleasant, without the hectoring sneer the OCTO seemed to achieve so effortlessly.

  “I’m afraid not, Sir,” she admitted.

  “That could be a liability in a Navy career,” the lieutenant said cheerfully. He looked across the table at a round-faced, dark-complexioned lieutenant commander and grinned. “Some of us,” he observed, “seem to be of the opinion that His Majesty’s starships actually run on caffeine, not reactor mass. In fact, some of us seem to feel that it’s our responsibility to rebunker regularly by taking that caffeine on internally.”

  The lieutenant commander looked down her nose at him and sipped from her own cup, then set it precisely back on the saucer.

  “I trust, Lieutenant, that it was not your intention to cast aspersions on the quantities of coffee which certain of your hard-working seniors consume on the bridge,” she remarked.

  “Certainly not! I’m shocked by the very suggestion that you might think I intended anything of the sort, Ma’am!”

  “Of course you are,” Commander Layson agreed, then looked down the length of the table at Honor from his place to the right of the Captain’s as yet unoccupied chair. “Ms. Harrington, allow me to introduce you. To your left, we have Lieutenant Saunders, our assistant astrogator. To his left, Lieutenant Commander LaVacher, our chief engineer, and to your right, Lieutenant Commander Hirake, our tac officer.” LaVacher, a petite, startlingly pretty blonde, faced Layson, who sat at Hirake’s right, across the table. She and the Exec completed the group of dinner guests, and Layson gave a small wave in Honor’s direction. “Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington.”

  Heads had nodded at her as the Exec named each officer in turn, and now Honor nodded respectfully back to them. Not a one of them, she noticed, seemed to exude the towering sense of superiority which was so much a part of Elvis Santino.

  Saunders had just opened his mouth to say something more when the hatch leading to the captain’s day cabin opened and a tall, spare man in the uniform of a senior-grade captain stepped through it. All of the other officers around the table stood, and Honor quickly followed suit. They remained standing until Captain Bachfisch had taken his own chair and made a small gesture with his right hand.

  “Be seated, ladies and gentlemen,” he invited.

  Chairs scraped gently on the decksole as his juniors obeyed the instruction, and Honor observed Bachfisch covertly as she unfolded her snowy linen napkin and draped it across her lap. It was the first time she’d set eyes upon the man who was master after God aboard War Maiden, and her first impression was one of vague dissatisfaction. Captain Bachfisch had a thin, lined face and dark eyes which seemed to hold a hint of perpetual frown. In fact, he looked more like an accountant whose figures hadn’t come out even than like Honor’s mental image of the captain of a King’s ship bound to suppress bloody piracy. Nor did his slightly nasal tenor seem the proper voice for such an exalted personage, and she felt an undeniable pang of disappointment.

  But then the steward reappeared and began to serve the meal proper, which banished such mundane concerns quite handily. The quality of the food was several notches higher than anything which normally came in the way of a lowly snotty, and Honor dug in with a will. There was little conversation while they ate, and she was just as glad, for it gave her the opportunity to enjoy the food without having to worry about whether a mere midshipwoman was expected to contribute to the table talk. Not that there was much table talk. Captain Bachfisch, in particular, applied himself to his dinner in silence. He seemed almost unaware of his guests, and despite the gratitude Honor felt at being allowed to enjoy her meal in relative peace, she wondered why he had bothered to invite them in the first place if he only intended to ignore them. It all seemed very peculiar.

  The dinner progressed from salad and an excellent potato soup through glazed chicken with sliced almonds, fluffy rice, stir-fried vegetables and sauteed mushrooms, fresh green peas, and crusty, butter-drenched rolls to a choice of three different desserts. Every time Honor glanced up, the steward seemed to be at her elbow, offering another helping, and she accepted with gusto. Captain Bachfisch might not match her mental image of a dashing and distinguished starship commander, but he set an excellent table. She hadn’t tasted food this good since her last visit home.

  The apple pie a la mode was even better than the glazed chicken, and Honor needed no prompting when the steward offered her a second helping. The man gave her a small, conspiratorial wink as he slid the second dessert plate in front of her, and she heard something which sounded suspiciously like a chuckle from Lieutenant Saunders’ direction. She glanced at the assistant astrogator from the corner of her eye, but his expression was laudably composed. There might have been a hint of a twinkle in his own eyes, but Honor scarcely minded that. She was a direct descendant of the Meyerdahl First Wave, and she was well accustomed to the reactions her genetically modified metabolism’s appetite—especially for sweets—drew from unprepared table mates.

  But in the end, she was reduced to chasing the last of the melted ice cream around the plate with her spoon, and she sat back with an unobtrusive sigh of repletion as the silent, efficient steward reappeared to collect the empty dishes and make them magically vanish into some private black hole. Wineglasses replaced them, and the steward presented an old-fashioned wax-sealed glass bottle for Captain Bachfisch’s inspection. Honor watched the Captain more attentively at that, for her own father was a notable wine snob in his own modest way, and she recognized another as the steward cracked the wax, drew the cork, and handed it to the Captain. Bachfisch sniffed it delicately while the steward poured a small quantity of ruby liquid into his glass, then set the cork aside and sipped the wine itself. He considered for just a moment, then nodded approval, and the steward filled his glass and then circled the table to pour for each of the guests in turn.

  A fresh butterfly fluttered its wings ever so gently in Honor’s middle as the steward filled her own glass. She was the junior officer present, and she knew what that required of her. She waited until the steward had finished pouring and stepped back, then reached for her glass and stood.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the King!” She was pleased her voice came out sounding so close to normal. It certainly didn’t feel as if it ought to have, but she appeared to be the only one aware of how nervous she felt.

  “The King!” The response sounded almost too loud in the cramped dining cabin, and Honor sank back into her chair quickly, vastly relieved to have gotten through without mischance.

  There was a sudden shift of atmosphere around the table, almost as if the loyalty toast were a signal the diners had awaited. It was more of a shift in attitude than anything else, Honor thought, trying to put a mental finger on what had changed. The Captain’s guests sat back in their chairs, wineglasses in hand, and Lieutenant Commander Hirake actually crossed her legs.

  “May I assume you got those charts properly straightened out, Joseph?” Captain Bachfisch said.

  “Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Saunders replied. “You were right, Captain. They were just mislabeled, although Commander Dobrescu and I are still a little puzzled over why someone thought we needed updated charts on the People’s Republic when we’re headed in exactly the opposite direction.”

  “Oh, that’s an easy one, Joseph,” Lieutenant Commander Hirake told him. “I imagine War Maiden’s original astrogator probably requested
them for her maiden voyage. I mean, it’s only been thirty-six standard years. That’s about average for turnaround on LogCom requests.”

  Several people around the table chuckled, and Honor managed not to let her surprise show as Captain Bachfisch’s lined, disapproving face creased in a smile of its own. The Captain waved a finger at the tac officer and shook his head.

  “We can’t have you talking that way about LogCom, Janice,” he told her severely. “If nothing else, you’ll raise future expectations which are doomed to be disappointed.”

  “I don’t know about that, Sir,” Commander Layson said. “Seems to me it took about that long to get the emitter head on Graser Four replaced, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, but that wasn’t LogCom alone,” Lieutenant Commander LaVacher put in. “The yard dogs on Hephaestus actually found it for us in the end, remember? I almost had to demand it at pulser point, but they did find it. Of course, they’d probably had it in stores for five or six years while some other poor cruiser waited for it, and we just shortstopped it.”

  That drew fresh chuckles, and Honor’s amazement grew. The men and women in the compartment with her were suddenly very different from those who had shared the almost silent, formal dinner, and Captain Bachfisch was the most different of all. As she watched, he cocked his head at Commander Layson, and his expression was almost playful.

  “And I trust that while Joseph was straightening out his charts you and Janice managed to come up with an exercise schedule which is going to make everyone onboard hate us, Abner?”

  “Well, we tried, Sir.” Layson sighed and shook his head. “We did our best, but I think there are probably three or four ratings in Engineering who are only going to take us in intense dislike instead.”

  “Hmm.” Captain Bachfisch frowned. “I’m a bit disappointed to hear that. When a ship’s company has as many grass-green hands as this one, a good exec shouldn’t have any trouble at all coming up with a training program guaranteed to get on their bad side.”

  “Oh, we’ve managed that, Sir. It’s just that Irma managed to hang on to most of her original watch crews, and they already know all our tricks.”

  “Ah? Well, I suppose that is a circumstance beyond your control,” Captain Bachfisch allowed, and looked at Lieutenant Commander LaVacher. “I see it’s your fault, Irma,” he said.

  “Guilty as charged, Sir,” LaVacher admitted. “Wasn’t easy, either, with BuPers hanging over my shoulder and trying to poach my most experienced people the whole time.”

  “I know it wasn’t,” the Captain said, and this time there was no teasing note in his approving voice. “I reviewed some of your correspondence with Captain Allerton. I thought right up to the last minute that we were going to lose Chief Heisman, but you finessed Allerton beautifully. I hope this isn’t going to cost the Chief that extra rocker, though. We need him, but I don’t want him shortchanged out of the deal.”

  “He won’t be, Sir,” Layson replied for LaVacher. “Irma and I discussed it before she ever resorted to the ‘essential to efficient functioning’ argument to hang onto him. We’re two senior chiefs light in Engineering alone… and we’re also going to be in Silesia more than long enough for you to exercise your own discretion in promoting Heisman to fill one of those slots.”

  “Good,” Bachfisch said. “That’s what I like to see! Intelligent ship’s officers effortlessly outsmarting their natural enemies at BuPers.”

  It was all Honor could do not to gawk at the changeling who had replaced the dour and unsmiling man in the chair at the head of the table. Then he turned from Layson and LaVacher and looked directly down the table at her, and this time there was a definite twinkle in his deep set eyes.

  “I notice your companion has spent the entire meal on the back of your chair, Ms. Harrington,” he observed. “I was under the impression that ’cats usually ate at the same time their people did.”

  “Uh, yes, Sir,” Honor said. She felt a warmth along her cheekbones and drew a deep breath. At least his bantering with the more senior officers present had given her some opportunity to adjust before he turned his guns on her, and she took herself firmly in hand. “Yes, Sir,” she said much more composedly. “Nimitz normally eats at the same time I do, but he doesn’t do very well with vegetables, and we weren’t sure what arrangements your steward might have made, so he ate in the berthing compartment before we came to dinner.”

  “I see.” The Captain gazed at her for a moment, then nodded at his steward. “Chief Stennis is a capable sort, Ms. Harrington. If you’ll be good enough to provide him with a list of foods suitable for your companion, I feel confident he can arrange an appropriate menu for his next dinner engagement.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Honor said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her relief at the evidence that Nimitz’s presence was welcome, and not merely something to be tolerated. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” Bachfisch replied, then smiled. “In the meantime, is there at least something we can offer him as an after dinner snack while we enjoy our wine?”

  “If Chief Stennis has a little celery left over from the salad, that would be perfect, Sir. ’Cats may not do well with most vegetables, but they all love celery!”

  “Jackson?” The Captain glanced at the steward who smiled and nodded.

  “I believe I can handle that, Sir.”

  Chief Stennis disappeared into his pantry, and Captain Bachfisch returned his attention to Commander Layson and Lieutenant Commander Hirake. Honor settled back in her chair, and the pleased buzz of Nimitz’s purr vibrated against the back of her neck. If she’d been a ’cat herself, her own purr would have been even more pleased and considerably louder. She watched War Maiden’s captain chatting with his officers and felt a sense of ungrudging admiration. This Captain Bachfisch was a very different proposition from the formal, almost cold CO who had presided over the meal itself. She still didn’t understand why he’d seemed so distant then, but she readily appreciated the skill with which he drew each of his officers in turn into the discussion now. And, she admitted, how effortlessly he had made a mere midshipwoman feel at ease in their company. His questions might be humorously phrased, and he might display an almost dangerously pointed wit, yet he had all of them involved in discussing serious issues, and he managed it as a leader, not merely as a captain. She remembered once more what Captain Courvosier had said about the need for a captain to know her officers, and realized that Bachfisch had just given her an object lesson in how a captain might go about that.

  It was a lesson worth learning, and she filed it away carefully as she smiled and reached up to take the plate of celery Chief Stennis brought her.

  “…and as you can see, we have the Alpha Three upgrade to the emergency local control positions for our energy mounts,” Chief MacArthur droned. The sturdy, plain-faced woman bore the hash marks of over twenty-five T-years’ service on her sleeve, and the combat ribbons on her chest proved she’d paid cash to learn her weapons skills. It was unfortunate that she’d never mastered the skills of the lecture hall to go with them. Even though Honor was deeply interested in what MacArthur had to tell her, she found it difficult to keep from yawning as the dust-dry instruction continued.

  She and Audrey Bradlaugh, War Maiden’s other female middy, stood in the number four inboard wing passage, peering over MacArthur’s shoulder into the small, heavily armored compartment. It didn’t offer a lot of space for the men and women who would man it when the ship cleared for action, and every square centimeter of room it did have was crammed with monitors, readouts, keypads, and access panels. In between those more important bits and pieces were sandwiched the shock-mounted couches and umbilical attachment points for the mere humans of the weapon crew.

  “When the buzzer goes, the crew has a maximum of fifteen minutes to don skinsuits and man stations,” MacArthur informed them, and Honor and Bradlaugh nodded as if no one had ever told them so before. “Actually, of course, fifteen minutes should give time to spare, althou
gh we sometimes run a bit over on shakedown cruises. On the other hand,” the petty officer glanced back at her audience, “the Captain isn’t what I’d call a patient man with people who screw up his training profiles, so I wouldn’t recommend dawdling.”

  One eyelid flickered in what might have been called a wink on a less expressionless face, and despite herself, Honor grinned at the petty officer. Not that on-mount crew duties were the most humorous subject imaginable. Honor knew that, for she’d logged scores of hours in simulators which recreated every detail of the local control command position in front of her, and her grin faded as she envisioned it in her mind. Her excellent imagination pictured every moment of the shriek of the general quarters alarm, the flashing lights of battle stations, and the sudden claustrophobic tension as the crew plugged in their skinsuit umbilicals and the hatch slammed shut behind them while powerful pumps sucked the air from the passages and compartments around them. The vacuum about their armored capsule would actually help protect it—and them—from atmosphere-transmitted shock and concussion, not to mention fires, yet she doubted anyone could ever embrace it without an atavistic shudder.

  Nimitz shifted uneasily on her shoulder as he caught the sudden edge of darkness in her emotions, and she reached up to rest one hand lightly on his head. He pressed back against her palm, and she made a soft crooning sound.

  “If Chief MacArthur is boring you, Ms. Harrington,” an unpleasant voice grated unexpectedly, “I’m sure we can find some extra duty to keep you occupied.”

  Honor turned quickly, shoulders tightening in automatic response, and her expression was suddenly a better mask than Chief MacArthur’s as she faced Elvis Santino. It was obvious the OCTO had come quietly around the bend in the passage while she and Bradlaugh were listening to MacArthur, and she castigated herself for letting him sneak up on her. Now he stood glaring at her, hands once more on hips and lip curled, and she gazed back at him in silence.