Huttola bares his teeth at me in a mock smile. It’s like an animal showing me his anger. “I’ll find you, count on it.”
Two days later, we come to a neutral port. In those two days, I find seven mistakes. Only when I’m too frustrated to continue does Captain Hallverson illuminate the other dozen details I’ve missed.
Perfection. He says it’s the only thing he requires. Perfection.
Waiting for us is a freighter converted into a repair unit. It seems we are scheduled for an overhaul. Captain Hallverson doesn’t expand on it, but he seems to expect it. The big surprise is finding the commodore waiting.
I stand with Captain Hallverson in the airlock while we await the commodore’s invitation. It’s an uncomfortable minute.
“Mr. Jager. You may stay here and return to the main fleet if you’d like.”
Go? I could be back with the main fleet in no time flat. A few weeks on a cushy freighter and then I’d…what? Be back as a fourth-rate officer on some starship large enough to swallow a moon? Or possibly another missile boat whose only job is to scare away something and then die with honor.
“With your permission, sir, I’d like to finish the tour.”
Captain Hallverson nods twice. “Very well.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The commodore, or the Honorable Rear Admiral Silas Moore, is almost more machine than man. He rides on a powered chair that contains what his body needs to stay alive. One eye is dead and gone, covered by a patch with only scars hinting at where it was. His other eye is sharp and dark blue and takes in every detail.
“Captain Hallverson.” The commodore’s voice is scratchy. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“You mean expecting us to be dead?” Captain Hallverson gives a salute. “How long to refit?”
The commodore pivots his chair and steers it to the edge of a display screen. We follow behind. On the screen is the Orca, in all of her grimy glory. Now that the cloaking gas is gone, she looks even worse. More corrosion and scale than hull fixtures.
She reminds me of an ancient whale, some deep-sea creature that lived in salt and pressure. A kraken of sorts, covered in barnacles and scale and the ropes from where Nemo tried to contain it. It’s about the ugliest thing I ever did lay eyes on, and I’m falling in love. Shaking that cloud of gas was easy enough. First we sucked up as much as we could. Then we made a quick course change and watched as the cloud of invisibility drifted away.
“You’re scheduled for a split, new chambers, a complete rework of the piping, and we’re mounting a kinetic—”
“Dammit, Silas. I don’t have that sort of time!”
The commodore turns to Captain Hallverson, his scarred face angry. “The Orca is the oldest boat in our fleet. The only of her class that started the war that’s still in service. It’s out of the question. We have to do the refit.”
“We’ll just do the critical—”
“Magnus, the Queen isn’t going anywhere. Last they saw her she was chasing after Second Fleet.”
“Which is why I need to get on the hunt!”
“Killing that ship is not your duty. This war will not be won based on whether a second-rate Tyrolean starship with a bad paint job is still intact.”
I look down and see Captain Hallverson’s hands shaking. Not just a little quiver, but like he’s containing the steam within. What could I do if he took a punch at a crippled commodore? Out of the ship, Hallverson is larger, or at least seems that way. He’s built like a fighter, a first-rate brawler.
Finally, the shaking stops.
The commodore looks back to the screen. “Two weeks, and she’ll be good as new.”
“Two weeks…” Hallverson whispers, his eyes on the Orca.
“Join me for dinner this evening. Ship’s officers as well,” the commodore says with a glance at me.
“An invitation or an order?” Hallverson replies.
The commodore cocks his head. “An invitation unless you say no.”
“Very well.” Hallverson salutes and walks off.
I turn and glance back at the commodore; he wears a wry smile. He planned it along. Otherwise, why is he wearing that grin?
We arrive back at the Orca to find an ornery crew of pipefitters, millwrights, boilermakers, electricians, welders, and every other civilian trade worker you can think of. They shout angrily at the first officer and Colby.
“Captain, they wanna tear her apart!” Colby yells.
Captain Hallverson plows through the crowd and turns to face them. “Who’s in charge of this group?”
“I am. Damascus Hollins, master welder.” The man has apple cheeks and bloodshot eyes.
Hallverson steps before the welder and sizes him up. “We sign off on every weld. Every joint. Every pipe. Do you understand?”
Damascus glares right back at him. “This is the eighteenth refit of an Orca class that I’ve supervised. It’ll be done right.”
“It better be done perfectly.” Captain Hallverson waves them onto the boat. He turns to us. “Colby, I want a watch on all of them. Make sure it’s done right.”
For the next eight hours, I follow after a crew of men and women as they slice and cut the guts from the ship. Out goes the galley. Next the store areas. Pipes weave out like dead snakes. Wiring spills everywhere. I have never seen a ship in such disarray.
The crew moves out and takes up temporary billets. There isn’t enough room for everyone on the Orca, so only the experts stay on board. How I end up on the list of experts is beyond me.
When I was a kid, I’d watch the refits on our home orbital. They’d just drag the freighters away from the station and start working. My dad always said you could tell how good the economy was by how many welders were getting drunk. Looking back at it now, I think he was right.
Judging by how many of the welders look hungover, I think they’ve been damned busy.
I leave the ship with half an hour to spare before dinner. Fashionably late isn’t considered fashionable in the navy. That’s when I got a good look at the ship.
One of the outer bulkheads is already cut completely off. The welders swarm over the hull like space-suited monkeys wielding plasma torches. The inner ship is bared for everyone to see. I felt a little embarrassed for the Orca; it doesn’t suit her. Now I can see the scars she wears. Patches. Holes. Burn marks. Shrapnel.
“Holy shit.” I can’t think of anything else to express my surprise. It’s a wonder the Orca ever made it back.
I rush through the billet, dig through one bag of uniforms after the next, and finally find my (Winkelman’s) bag. Time is against me. I still have to wash up, get in a quick shave, and meet with Captain Hallverson. I throw the bag over my shoulder and push into a side conference room to change.
I’m halfway into the blue dress jacket when the door opens.
“Hey, I’m changing in here,” I call over my shoulder.
Huttola steps inside and jams a chair against the door. His coveralls are folded over at his waist. Both of his hands are balled up into fists. He stands between me and the only exit. “I’d hate for you to be late.”
Now I have a problem. I can’t very well undress. It took me a minute to get into Winkelman’s uniform. To make it worse, I couldn’t exactly change into another if I tore this one.
“Huttola, open the door and walk. We’ll do this another time.” Fighting him now isn’t what I want to do. Not that I couldn’t kick his ass, but…well, not in Winkelman’s only clean dress uniform.
Huttola grins at me. He clacks his fists together. “I’m not on duty.”
Now I wonder: Do I play rank? I doubt it would work, and this would just happen again, and to top it off I’d have no respect. Huttola is a technical officer; while not in command, he could be. Exactly why he wants my job. Make me look bad enough, and Hallverson will have to promote him. And I’ll get stuck on shore.
It’d be one way out of my career as a naval officer on an Orca. But what the hell, I’m not about to back down
from a fight.
Time to solve this.
“Last chance, Huttola.”
“Fuck you.” Huttola crouches into a wrestler’s pose, his hands before him like claws.
Except his feet are wrong. His balance is off. He stands exactly like someone who plans on rushing me, grappling me to the ground, and, judging by his stance, will try and dry hump me into submission.
I wave one fist to the right, watch his eyes. The moment he leans to grab me, I slam my left in a hard uppercut.
Huttola never sees that punch coming. I feel knuckles connect with jawbone and a clack-bounce of teeth. His eyes roll back, and he tumbles onto the floor like a sack of potatoes.
It wasn’t a great punch. I guess I’m kind of rusty.
I open the door. A quarter of the crew are standing and looking inside. Judging from the expressions on their faces, they didn’t expect to see me still standing.
“Huttola.” I shake him. I shake him again, and then I pour some cold coffee onto his face.
His eyes snap open and struggle to focus.
I reach a hand down and help him up. He wobbles a bit, and I steer him out into the hall. Sebic takes him and sits him down on a bunk.
“Get him some ice for that, eh, Sebic?”
Sebic blinks hard a few times and nods quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Captain Hallverson steps into the billet. Someone calls us to attention, and he waves a hand. The room relaxes less than a millimeter.
He crosses his arms over his chest, a heavily medal-encrusted chest I might note, and frowns. “Mr. Jager, you’re late.”
“I, uh.”
Hallverson glances at Huttola and then back to me.
“Pardon, sir. One moment while I grab my jacket.” I rush back into the conference room and exit with the too-tight jacket.
“Is there an issue?” Hallverson says. He narrows his eyes.
“Not at all, sir,” I say with an honest smile. “Huttola and I had a discussion.”
Hallverson looks at the crowd and then turns to exit. “Don’t have that discussion again.”
I follow after Captain Hallverson. He gives me a questioning look, but I simply smile back. If he doesn’t ask, it’s not technically lying. We meet up with Yao and Colby. Yao still looks like shit, but Colby is like a picture from a recruiting poster. Had we been on planet, off duty, and didn’t know each other, I so would’ve gotten shot down.
“Keep quiet. Eat. One drink. Then we go.” Hallverson obviously doesn’t enjoy dinners with the brass.
Thanks to my fraternity days, I’m no stranger to a few drinks. Tau Kappa Epsilon. So one drink just doesn’t seem, well, honest. I just have a hard time trusting someone who can’t let loose on a good drunk. Though I’ve been known to make exceptions.
We march through the halls of the maintenance freighter. Two crisp and stout marines stand guard at the door.
Marines tend be like furniture in this sort of operation. They must mass produce them out of raw hamburger and jagged nails. They keep to themselves, don’t say much, and ooze violence. Sometimes I think I’d have made a good marine.
They admit us without a word. The dining hall is large, with high ceilings and a definite cafeteria feel. Row after row of plain black tables are arrayed perfectly. Civilians and sailors sit throughout the room with cafeteria trays before them.
One table is an island of civility in the midst of the cafeteria. It’s covered in cloth with place settings that say you better know which fork to use. The commodore sits at the head of that table in as much of a uniform as he can wear. A half dozen other officers stand when we enter.
The civilian technicians, ship’s crew, and marines pay us no mind.
It’s like the fanciest dinner you’ve ever been to, right in the middle of a college dormitory cafeteria. All that’s missing is someone in a Grateful Dead T-shirt.
I follow Hallverson’s lead and stand behind my chair. The commodore beckons, and we sit. I’m as far removed from the conversation as one can be. Across from me is an equally young ensign with a nervous smile.
Cocktails come first. Then soup. Then a mint liqueur. This is followed by a salad. Then a glass of dark beer.
It’s about then I see Captain Hallverson hasn’t touched anything but the glass of dark beer. His glare tells me that I’ll be getting hell shortly. This day just keeps getting better.
Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the chance to finally get a buzz. Or maybe I’ve just fucked up.
But I keep at it. As long as they bring it, I drink it.
The commodore and Hallverson speak of recent fleet movements. Hints of enemy actions. What the other Orca-class ships are up to. And finally they come to the fleet battle where I was picked up.
Later I don’t remember exactly what I say or what I do, but here’s the basics. It seems I lay out the battle lines using olives, with slices of baguette as the battleships. Then I clamber onto the table and carefully plot the food while standing above it.
The commodore enjoys it.
Captain Hallverson does not.
I do distinctly recall giving the Orca credit for the rescue.
Past that, things become a blur after I’m toasted a few times. Which of course means emptying the glass. At some point, Hallverson departs. Yao and Colby help carry me back, and then it seems I vomit on Colby’s uniform.
I awake about a dozen hours later. Someone has just doused me with a massive pail of ice-cold water. There’s a certain special shock to having a hangover bad enough to kill a walrus.
I blink and scramble away from the cold wetness.
“Captain said to make sure you were up and to keep you cracking,” Huttola says, the satisfaction thick in his voice.
Shit.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Huttola doesn’t kill me. And to be honest, I’ve had worse hangovers. Though he certainly doesn’t make it easy on me. There is a professional sort of anger to him; that edge of hatred is gone.
The flow of this refit station is amazing. It isn’t a one-off refabrication shop like I’d seen growing up. This is a cross between an automated assembly line and a bespoke manufacturer. They let gantry welders automatically weld the giant seams while the tiny, finicky details are all done by hand.
I’d say about three-quarters of the support staff keep the automated equipment going. It runs nonstop. The plates are lasered in space, welded a few meters away, and quality checked by one of the crew. I ask one of the engineers how long it’d take to make a new Orca-class ship.
His answer is short: less time than to fix an old one. Seems the navy has a soft spot for this old girl.
Huttola keeps me moving through all of the excitement. It isn’t a pleasant few days.
In one of the few breaks, I decide to ask. “Huttola.”
“What?” he snaps back.
“Don’t want my job anymore?”
Huttola snorts. “Captain said it wasn’t something to speak about. That settles it.”
Interesting. After all that had happened, all it took was a simple statement from Hallverson. I’ve underestimated this crew. They aren’t timid like they seem but honed to an obedience that is quite impressive. Then it makes me wonder if Hallverson had set me up to see how Huttola would react.
Or maybe to see how I would react.
This sets me on a strange tangent. Am I being played? “You trust him, eh?”
Huttola frowns at me. He seems really good at frowning. “You know how often he’s held all of our lives in his hand? More than you can imagine. He’s saved us all more than once. Hell, he’s the only reason I’m not dead. We’re a family.” He raps a fist against his chest. “Family.”
“And I’m not.”
“That’s right.” Huttola’s face loses more of that hard edge. “What have you lost?”
I don’t say anything. I know a losing debate when I see it.
“I lost my brothers, my mother, a little sister. It was just me and my da.”
“I’m
sorry.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Somewhere down the hall, a loud clang announces one more wall coming down. Which means I have another pile of grit and grime to sweep up.
“Get moving.” Huttola doesn’t miss a beat. Not when busting my ass is the order of the day.
When that day’s work is finished, I finally crash in a screened-off section of a shared dorm. Henna is asleep a few beds down, still wearing her stained coveralls. I’ve hardly had a chance to talk with her since we were rescued. I wonder if she has the same vibe as me. Soon enough I’m out, in a dreamless sleep.
One of the commodore’s aides, a commander, wakes me in the morning. Morning is a stretch; the only sound from the crew is snoring and an occasional fart.
“Come with me,” the commander says in a low voice.
He leads the way. I try to straighten myself up. It’s not often a naval officer wakes you up early in the morning without a sound. Orders, maybe? I think about it as we leave the maintenance zone and enter the ship proper.
“In here,” the commander says. He holds open the door. Inside sits the commodore.
“Sir.” I snap to attention.
“Thank you, Hobbes. Close the door please, Mr. Jager.” The commodore powers his chair behind his desk.
I don’t keep him waiting and snap the door shut.
“Help yourself to a cup of coffee.” His voice doesn’t have that titanium edge anymore. He just sounds old.
I take him up on the offer; it’s hard to be stiff backed when someone offers you a drink. Just that one small detail is enough to change the whole tone of the room. It takes the edge off. Though the coffee sucks.
“I’ve read Captain Hallverson’s report about picking you up. You were with the Second Fleet then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And would you like to go back?”
Now that catches me off guard. I snort a bit on the coffee and manage to suck it down. The commodore cracks a scarred smile. I bet he wanted that moment of surprise and waited till I’d taken a sip. A trickster, eh? I like him even more.
Cloak of War Page 9
