“Calendula, this is Sequoia. You still have the ocular simulator?”
“Yes, sir.” Val had managed to walk off the bridge with the goggles perched in her hair above her eyes earlier. “They’re on my bunk. I left them there when I changed for P.T.” Or flung them there as the case might have been. After spending more than eight hours being run through hazardous piloting simulations, she had been sick of them.
“Can you take them to Commander Thatcher’s cabin? He’ll be replacing me on shift soon, and he said he’d program something special to challenge you tomorrow.”
As if his first programming hadn’t been special enough. “I’m a lucky girl, aren’t I?”
“Let’s just say that I’m glad I was already a part of the company when he joined up. I’m not sure I would have performed up to his rigorous standards.”
Even if Val dreaded the idea of climbing another ladder with the muscle she had strained—if a woman had designed this ship, it would have crew elevators—the confession warmed her. Sequoia was turning out to be a decent fellow.
“I’ll take it to him now, sir,” she said.
“Good. Then get some rest.”
She certainly intended to try. If she could get past the fact that a strange spiked mace leered down at her from the wall beside her bunk. Sahara hadn’t yet made any mention about moving any of her belongings or clearing out space. Maybe she didn’t think her new roommate would be there for long.
When Val walked in, a surprising barrage of amorous noises hit her. All she could think was that Sahara had dug out some pornography, but she soon spotted a bare and hairy ass moving vigorously on the top bunk. She hadn’t been watching any of the times Sahara had changed clothes, but she was pretty sure the woman wasn’t that hairy. Ah, yes, there was her ass. Also bare. And indeed less hairy.
Val put a hand up to shield her eyes—more for her sanity than their privacy—and patted her way to the bottom bunk. The lights had been dimmed, and she didn’t have any interest in turning them up. She had already seen more of what was going on in that top bunk than she would have preferred. Nobody besides Sahara had walked in while Val had been in the hall, so Hairy must have been in there waiting. So reassuring to know that some random man had access to her cabin.
They didn’t stop or acknowledge her, so Val grabbed the goggles and hurried out, ignoring the twinges from her knee. She wished she knew more people so she might have somewhere to go until her cabin grew… quieter. Or preferably vacant. Maybe the randy duo would go get drunk somewhere afterward. Though where she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if the ship had a bar—she had checked Thatcher’s map. Such a delight to feel like a school kid again, sharing rooms in a dorm and having no privacy.
Val hauled herself up to the top floor, where the officers’ cabins were. Then she stood in the corridor and chewed on her lip. She had no idea which one of those doors was Thatcher’s. Maybe she would take the goggles to Sequoia on the bridge instead.
She turned around and almost smacked into a man’s naked sweaty chest. She stepped back, only to have a fresh stab of pain spring from her knee.
“Doesn’t anyone in this zoo wear clothes after nine?” she snapped before the rational part of her brain could point out that yelling at people on the officers’ deck probably wasn’t a good idea.
She looked up, hoping she had stumbled across a couple of privates who might simply be running some pre-approved exercise loop that snaked through the ship’s corridors. The two men looming in front of her did appear to be doing something like that, since sweat slicked both of their muscular chests, but they weren’t privates. The one on the right was Sergeant Striker, the crude fighter from the shuttle ride, and the one on the left… er, yes, that was the man who had smashed Sahara into the mat in three seconds. And who happened to be the captain. Crap, there went Val’s hopes of getting the job.
“Nope, no one,” Striker said, giving her a leer, which was silly because she was wearing sweat pants and a baggie sweatshirt that her taller, broader shouldered roommate had loaned her. There was nothing worth leering at on display. “Rules are you gotta wear trousers, shoes, and shirt on duty, but after that, your time’s your own. Maybe you want to take off some of your clothes. You look hot.” He winked to make sure she didn’t miss his clever double entendre.
“Striker,” the captain said, his voice cool. “Take a shower.”
“Yes, sir.” Striker started past Val, but he paused and chomped down on his lower lip, like he was trying to think of some quick way to invite her to stop by later.
She avoided his eyes, and the captain added, “Alone, Striker.”
“Yes, sir.” The brawny man deflated and jogged off, hopping onto a ladder for a lower floor.
“Sorry, sir,” Val said, hoping she might salvage the wreckage left by her outburst. She had yet to have a commanding officer who wanted to hear excuses about hairy-butted cabin visitors, so she wouldn’t whine about that, but she felt she had to apologize somehow. “My knee’s a bit sore. It made me grumpy. Won’t happen again.”
“Grumpiness?”
She squinted up at him, almost suspecting him of a sense of humor, but that didn’t fit in with all she had heard about him. He was supposed to be dour, reclusive, and prone to angry streaks. She had already heard from several people that he’d broken the necks of crew members who had betrayed the company.
“Snapping at superiors, sir.” Eager to change the subject, Val held up the goggles. “Lieutenant Sequoia told me to take these to Commander Thatcher’s quarters, but I was just realizing I don’t know where they are.”
The captain pointed behind her. “Fourth door on the right.”
“Thank you, sir.” Val hustled off before she could get herself into trouble. More trouble.
Fortunately, the captain disappeared into another cabin without another word. She waved her hand at a door chime. Maybe Thatcher would already be on the bridge. It seemed weird to visit the sleeping quarters of a superior officer, especially one she answered directly to. He probably wouldn’t invite her in though. She could hand him the goggles from the corridor.
“Enter,” came his voice over the intercom.
Er, so much for standing in the corridor. Val stepped toward the door, and it slid aside. She stopped on the threshold, though the busy and omnipresent decor distracted her from her resolve to simply toss the goggles and go.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected from Thatcher, but walls filled with spaceship, shuttle, and airplane models wasn’t it. Walls, shelves on walls, display cases on walls, larger pieces hanging from the ceiling… It was like walking into a ten-year-old boy’s room, except everything was fastidiously organized and labeled. And there wasn’t laundry on the floor. The sole deviation from the flying-things decor was a set of dwarf fruit trees potted in a grow system in the corner. They all had the same long drooping leaves, with one tree flowering and two others bearing fruit. The flowers smelled lovely even from across the room, and she recognized them from the big greenhouses she had worked in as a child.
“Mangoes?” she wondered aloud. Even though she could see and smell the evidence, she hadn’t encountered the trees in so long that she doubted her senses.
“Yes.” Commander Thatcher sat on the edge of his bunk, tying his boots. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, either—late night nudity was definitely a trend on this ship—though one was folded on the bed next to him, waiting to be donned. His hair was wet and not yet combed, and that gave her a start. She had never seen him with a lock out of place. Had she arrived a few minutes earlier, she might have caught him in the shower. That would have been… awkward.
Thatcher was giving her a curious look, and Val had a feeling he hadn’t expected her.
She held up the goggles. “Lieutenant Sequoia said to bring these to you, sir.”
“Ah.” He held out a hand.
She tossed them to him, not wanting to step into his personal space. Or have him in hers. He wasn’t leering at her the way tha
t idiot in the hall had been, but he was her asshole instructor from the academy, not anyone she wanted to admire with his shirt off. Even if his torso was nicely muscled. Not so heavily as the captain’s or Striker’s, but he had a lean ropey build that went with his more cerebral air. She wondered if he held his own on the wrestling mat. He had always struck her as someone who would have had the snot beaten out of him regularly if not for the rank on his uniform.
“Is there something else, Cadet Calendula?” Thatcher picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head.
Val blushed. He hadn’t caught her staring, had he? The last thing she wanted was for him to think she had an interest in him. Or that she was thinking of sleeping with him to ensure she got the job or something else ridiculous and demeaning.
“No, sir. Goodnight.” Val turned for the door but flinched, flinging up a hand when she glimpsed something dangling near her head. When she realized it was stationary and high enough above her that she wouldn’t have hit it, she felt foolish and tried to cover her reaction. Maybe she would pretend that interest had been what made her pause. “That’s a strange one.” The model—some sort of bizarre airplane with a propeller and an extra set of wings—looked like it would be lucky to have the power and aerodynamic mettle to mow a lawn much less fly. “What is it?”
After she spoke, she remembered that she was supposed to be promptly leaving the cabin and not putting any strange notions about herself into the commander’s head. She should have simply ignored her flinch and hustled out.
“That is a Sopwith Camel.” Thatcher walked over and unclasped it from its hook so she could have a closer look. “It was an early biplane fighter from Old Earth, and it was used in the first big war after flight was invented. They say it was difficult to fly, thanks to the engine, pilot, guns, and fuel tank all being positioned close together within the first seven feet of the craft. In addition, the gyroscopic effect of the rotary engine provided a further challenge. Look at the machine guns. They were incredibly heavy, awkward, and primitive. The whole craft was, but I’ve often wondered what it would have been like for those early pilots, looking your enemies right in the eye, with the wind blowing in your face, engine oil spattering your goggles.”
Val had never heard Thatcher speak animatedly about anything, and she caught herself gaping at him. When he looked at her—expecting some cognizant contribution to the conversation?—she blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Seems like it’d be hard to see your enemy if you had engine oil all over your goggles.” Way to sound intelligent, Val. Nice work.
He blinked a couple of times, as if this problem had never occurred to him. “I believe they wore scarves so they could wipe the lenses.”
“Practical.” Val glanced around at the dozens—hundreds?—of other models, wondering if Thatcher knew all the specifications and trivia for each one. Probably so. For some reason, an urge to quiz him on a couple came to mind. If only because it had been so odd to hear him speak with passion about something. No, what did she care about his passions? She needed to get out of there. “I better go.”
“Val—Cadet Calendula, wait,” he said.
She paused on the threshold, the door sliding open in front of her. “Yes, sir?”
He stood there, his model held gently in his hands, gazing at her as if he wanted to say something, but he merely shook his head and looked down at the ancient airplane. “There is nothing more. I will modify the ocular simulator to offer you a superior training experience tomorrow.”
“Uh. Fantastic.”
Val took a step and almost crashed into another chest. No, wait, it was the captain’s chest again, this time covered with a black T-shirt.
“Pardon me, sir.” She stepped back to let him enter.
“Sir.” Thatcher came into a rigid attention stance, his heels snapping together, and saluted.
Val hadn’t seen anyone else salute since she had been on board, but if anyone would maintain a rigid military professionalism, even out here on a mercenary ship, it would be Thatcher. The captain saluted back, though his eyebrow twitched at the model. Thatcher hurried to hang it back on the hook, missing the eyelet a couple of times in the process. Did the captain make him nervous? Good. No one ever had at the academy, insofar as she had seen. He needed someone who could squash that pompous arrogance of his. Though, granted, he wasn’t acting quite as self-important as he had ten years ago. Maybe being kicked out of the army, or whatever had happened, had dulled the edge of his conceit.
Val lingered in the threshold, curious as to what these two might be meeting about, but she had essentially been dismissed, so she turned back toward the corridor to leave.
“She the one you’re taking on the mission?” the captain asked.
Val halted. Her? Or were they talking about someone else? Maybe they had forgotten she was in the cabin. But when she glanced over her shoulder, both men were looking at her.
“She’s not officially in the company yet, sir,” Thatcher said. “It would be premature to take her on a dangerous mission.”
“It’s going to be a dangerous mission whether she’s on the Albatross or on a shuttle with you. I wouldn’t have approved taking on a trainee this week if I’d known we would be off to Icesphere, but we were close and they’re offering solid pay.”
Go on a dangerous mission with Thatcher? If she thought spending five minutes in his cabin had been awkward…
“It was my understanding that the Albatross would simply be fighting hard enough to provide a convincing distraction, sir,” Thatcher said.
“Against the Death Rush Fleet. They have seven ships and five times the men we have. Some will be down on the planet, true, but we’ll have our hands full surviving for three days and convincing them that we were brought in to do more than harry their supply ships.”
“I object to Admiral Pentalon’s declaration of his outfit as a fleet. Seven ships. That would scarcely qualify as a flotilla.”
The captain grunted. “Whatever it is, it’s a lot more than we’ve got.” He pointed at Val. “We need to see how she handles a shuttle in combat. It’s likely you’ll face obstacles, even with our distraction. If not on the way in, then on the way out, after you drop off your cargo. She can pilot, and you can take over if she needs help.”
Val rested her hand on the doorjamb, not sure if she was honored by this potential assignment—a chance to prove herself a capable pilot and to earn some combat pay too—or horrified. It sounded like being invited into the bullring in the Mafiarcha Kingdom. You could impress the king and earn your way out of indentured servitude… or you could get yourself gored to death.
“I do not know if she is ready, sir,” Thatcher said.
Val might not be sure whether this was a good idea or not herself, but she resented his insinuation that she couldn’t handle the task. But then she reminded herself that she didn’t want to get in a shuttle with Thatcher for… however many hours—or days, ugh—this mission might take.
“Where are you from, Calendula?” the captain asked. “Originally.”
“Lakeridge Silva, sir. Southern Continent.”
“Any family make it off-world? Before the end?”
“Just my brother. He’d been accepted to Varsmouth University on Novus Earth, and it was his first year of studies.” Strange to remember what a scholar he had been, how much pride and hope their parents had possessed for him. Mom and Dad hadn’t expected all that much from their daughter, but her younger brother, for whom academics had always come so easily, had intended to become a banker or finance guru, someone who might affect change from within the system. But he’d never recovered from the destruction of their world, never cared to return to that “system” again. He’d had so much potential to be whatever he wanted, to determine his own fate. His descent into mediocrity—and below—had always seemed a greater crime than her own.
If the captain thought anything of her long silence or the misty look that must have entered her eyes, he didn’t say anythin
g. Thatcher didn’t say anything, either, though his was less a look of understanding and more a look that said he didn’t understand, couldn’t. It was just as well. She had never been comfortable with profusions of sympathy.
“What do you think of the ship so far?” the captain asked. “Aside from the nudity?”
Thatcher’s brow wrinkled at the latter question, and he touched his shirt, then glanced back to the bed to where it had been when Val first walked in.
“It’s, uhm, fine, sir,” she said.
“A heartfelt endorsement.” The captain didn’t sound annoyed. “I’ve been told of late that I shouldn’t give free passes to people just because we come from the same place, so you’ll have to survive Thatcher’s tests if you want the job, but I’ll wish you luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” Val said and strolled out with a bounce in her step, despite the aching legs and throbbing knee. She had no idea what this mission was about, or if she could pass Thatcher’s battery of tests, but the captain’s words encouraged her.
She could deal with a day stuck in a shuttle with her overbearing commander if she had to. And if he didn’t want to spend a day in a shuttle with her? That was too damned bad. She could distract him by asking him about his models.
* * *
One of the ground crew had already packed the shuttle, but Gregor walked through it with a checklist pulled up on his tablet, regardless. Food and emergency rations for three, check. Extra fuel and battery packs, check. Charged lasers and loaded torpedo chambers, check. An idea of what he would discuss with Cadet Calendula during the several hours it would take them to get from the disembarkation point to the space station… no, he couldn’t check that one off the list. Which flummoxed him, because he had actually put it on his list, and not being able to complete the systems check would make it difficult to move forward and concentrate on further tasks.
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 31
