by David Weber
“Absolutely,” O’Casey agreed with another sigh, “but that’s our Roger all over. If there’s a way to do it wrong, he’ll find it every time.”
Roger watched Pahner make his way down the center transom of the shuttle bay and shook his head. With the troops squashed into the shuttle like old-fashioned sardines in a can, the only way to move up and down the troop bay was by walking on the transom on which the center seats were mounted. That meant, of course, that he was walking at head level to the seated Marines.
The problem was that while Pahner was in a relatively light and fairly nimble skin suit, which he’d donned in preference to armor for just this reason, Roger was wrapped in ChromSten. He could no more make his way down that narrow strip in armor than he could walk a tightrope, and he rather doubted that any of his bodyguards would feel happy about being stepped upon, however daintily, by armor that weighed as much as a tyranothere.
“Well, Your Highness?” Pahner asked as he reached the end and swung easily to the floor.
“I’m going to have a hard time making my way down the bay in this,” Roger said, gesturing at his armor. Pahner glanced at the gray battle steel and nodded.
“Take it off. We’re going to be rattling around for a couple of hours.”
“Take it off where? There’s not enough room in the compartment.”
“Right here,” Pahner said, gesturing at the small open area. The patch of deck was the only open area in the bay, a tiny sliver of room for the shuttle crew to move around in. A ladder led up from it to a small landing with two hatches, one to the command compartment, and the other to the bridge. There was another hatch on the troop level portside. It was a pressure door leading to the exterior.
“Right here?” Roger juggled the helmet under his arm to give himself a moment to think while he looked around. Most of the guards were still doing their own things. A few had gotten up to move around, but most of those had headed to the rear of the bay where the palletized cargo afforded room to stretch out. It seemed awfully . . . public, though.
“I could get your valet,” Pahner said with a faint smile. “He’s back there,” he continued, gesturing towards the rear of the troop bay.
“Matsugae?” Roger’s face brightened. “That would be grea– I mean, yes, of course, Captain. Do you think you could fetch my valet?” he ended in a refined drawl.
“Well,” Pahner said, his face closing down again, “I don’t know about ‘fetch.’ ” He banged the nearest sleeping guard on the shoulder. “Pass the word for Matsugae.”
The Marine yawned, shoved the next Marine in line, passed on the word, and promptly went back to sleep. A few moments later, Roger saw the small form of the valet emerge from under a pile of rucksacks. He bent down and spoke to someone, then climbed onto the transom and made his way toward the prince.
Vertical pillars ran up from the transom to the roof every two meters, and if Matsugae was far less nimble on the uncertain footing than Captain Pahner had been, he had the overall idea down. He would hold onto a vertical, then move forward of it, using it to balance as he shuffled out on the transom as far as he could before making a hopping lunge for the next. Using this technique, he slowly made his way forward to the prince’s position.
“Good—” the valet paused, obviously checking the clock in his toot “—evening, Your Highness.” He smiled. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Valet Matsugae,” Roger said, much more careful to maintain his formality in front of so many listening ears. “How are you?”
“Very well, Your Highness. Thank you.” Matsugae gestured to the rear of the compartment. “Sergeant Despreaux has been a mine of helpful information.”
“Despreaux?” Roger lifted an eyebrow and leaned sideways to look down the line of troops, and caught the brief flash of a refined profile.
“She’s a squad leader in Third Platoon, Your Highness. A very nice young lady.”
“Given their resumes,” Roger said with a smile, “I doubt that you could categorize any of the young ladies in The Empress’ Own as ‘nice.’ ”
“As you say, Your Highness,” Matsugae said with an answering smile. “How can I be of service?”
“I have to get out of this armor and into something decent.”
Matsugae’s face crumpled.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I should’ve known. Let me go get my pack.” He started to scramble up onto the transom again, preparing to retrace his route.
“Wait!” Roger said. “I have a uniform packed up in the command compartment. I just need help getting out of the armor.”
“Oh, well then,” Matsugae said, climbing back down. “If Captain Pahner could give me a hand? I don’t actually know all that much about armor, but I’m willing to learn.”
As they disconnected the armor’s various latches and controls, Roger became curious.
“Matsugae? Am I to understand that you have spare uniforms for me in your pack?”
“Well, Your Highness,” the valet said almost shyly, “Sergeant Despreaux told me that you weren’t able to bring all your clothes. And why. I didn’t feel it appropriate that you have only one suit of armor and a single uniform, so I packed a few extra outfits along. Just in case.”
“Can you carry it?” Captain Pahner sounded skeptical. “Of course, if that’s all that you’re carrying . . .”
“I will admit, Captain,” the small valet said in a pert voice, “that I’m not carrying the weight of ammunition most of your Marines are. However, I am carrying my full equipment load and a share of the squad load for the headquarters group. His Highness’ gear is, so to speak, my ammunition allotment.”
“But can you carry it?” Pahner repeated darkly. “Day after day.”
“We shall simply have to see, Captain,” Matsugae replied calmly. “I think so. But we shall have to see.”
He returned to his task of peeling the prince, and Roger soon found himself once again standing in the midst of scattered pieces of armor.
“I’m forever putting this stuff on and taking it off.” He brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the singlet he’d worn under the armor as Matsugae scrambled up the steps to the command compartment.
“Not for much longer, Your Highness,” Pahner pointed out. “Once we land on the planet, it will hardly ever be used. But if we need it, we’re really going to need it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What else do we need?” O’Casey asked, thumbing through the list of supplies the Marines had loaded.
“Whatever it is, it better not weigh much,” Kosutic replied. The sergeant major was doing a recalculation of fuel use, and she looked up with a grimace. “I don’t think we have much margin.”
“I thought you could glide one of these things in,” Eleanora said uncomfortably. It was hardly her area of expertise, but she knew that the shuttles’ swing-wing configuration gave them a tremendous glide ratio.
“We can.” Kosutic’s tone was mild. “If we have a runway, that is.” She gestured at one of the monitors, where the small map from the Fodor’s was displayed. “Do you see many airports? In glide mode, one of these things needs a nice, old-fashioned runway. You try to land without one, and you might as well give your soul to His Wickedness.”
“So what happens if it were running out of fuel, then?”
“Well, if we were headed in for a standard atmosphere insertion, we could correct at the last minute and do some atmospheric skipping to slow down. The problem is, if we do an orbit, we’ll be detected. Then the whole plan goes out the airlock, and we have a cruiser and the garrison hunting us dirtside.
“If, on the other hand, we do a steep reentry—which, by the way, is what we’re planning—and run out of fuel, we’ll just pancake.”
“Oh.”
“Make a hell of a hole,” Kosutic snorted.
“I can imagine,” O’Casey said faintly.
“I imagine that this is about where we should be detecting the Saint, Sir,” Sublieutenant Sege
din said.
“Understood.” Captain Krasnitsky looked at the helmsman. “Prepare for course change. Quartermaster, pass the word to the Marines to prepare for separation.”
“They should have detected us by now,” Captain Delaney said. “Why are they still decelerating for the planet?”
“Could they still intend to land their Marines?” the chaplain asked, leaning over the tactical display beside him.
Delaney’s nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the chaplain’s unwashed cassock. Washing among the faithful was an occasional thing, since it used unnecessary resources. And such harmful chemicals as deodorants were, of course, right out.
“They must,” Delaney mused. “But they’re still too far out.” He smiled as the display changed. “Ah! Now we have a feel for their sensor damage. There’s the course change.”
“Prepare for separation. Five minutes,” the ennunciator boomed.
Roger looked up in surprise from his conversation with Sergeant Jin. The Korean was surprisingly well versed on current men’s fashions, and after Roger had circulated briefly around the compartment (doing his best imitation of Mother at a garden party), he’d settled down for a long talk with the sergeant. Better that than a long talk with the fascinating Sergeant Despreaux. Something told him that getting “interested” in one of his bodyguards in a situation like this one probably was a bad idea. Not that it would have been a good idea under any circumstances, he reflected with a familiar moodiness.
“You’d better get your armor back on, Sir,” Jin said, glancing at the chameleon suit Roger had changed into. “It’ll take you at least that long.”
“Right. Talk to you later, Sergeant.” Roger had become accustomed to walking the transom, and now he sprang lightly onto it and skipped forward, swinging gracefully from pillar to pillar.
“Show off,” Julian muttered as he shifted the rucksack across his knees. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, since it was supported by his armor, but the confinement got to him after a while.
He’d been awakened by the prince’s circuit, and hadn’t yet gotten back to sleep. He realized that his responses to the fop’s rote questions had been a bit surly, but the prince hadn’t seemed to notice.
“I don’t think he was showing off,” Despreaux said tartly. “I think he was hurrying up front.”
Julian raised an eyebrow. Since Despreaux was seated across from him, it gave him the perfect opportunity to needle her, and it would have violated his most deeply held principles to pass it up.
“Ah, you’re just jealous because he has better hair than you do.”
She glanced sideways to get a glimpse of the rapidly undressing prince.
“It is nice,” she murmured, and Julian’s mouth dropped open as the realization dawned on him.
“You like him, don’t you? You’ve got the hots for the Prince!”
Her head snapped back around, and she glared at the other squad leader.
“That is the stupidest thing– Of course I don’t!”
Julian started to tease her further, but then the full implications hit him. There was no way the Regiment would allow one of the guards to carry on with a member of the Imperial Family. He looked around, but all the other troopers seemed to be asleep or had earbuds in. Fortunately, no one had caught his earlier outburst, and he leaned forward as far as the packed equipment permitted.
“Nimashet, are you nuts?” he hissed softly. “They’ll have your ass for this!”
“There’s nothing going on,” she replied just as quietly, fingering the gray chameleon cover of the rucksack on her knees. “Nothing.”
“There’d better be nothing!” he whispered fiercely. “But I don’t believe it.”
“I can handle it,” the sergeant said, leaning back. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.”
“Sure you are. Sure.” He shook his head and leaned back as well. What a cock-up, he thought.
On the opposite side of the transom, Poertena managed to turn a laugh into a cough. He rolled his head around as if half-asleep, and coughed again. Despreaux and the Prince, he thought. Oh, t’at’s pocking funny!
“What’s so funny, Sir?” Commander Talcott asked. The XO had just returned from a survey of the ship, and the news wasn’t good. Four of DeGlopper’s eight missile launchers had taken enough damage to put them out of play for the next bout, and the dead cruiser’s fire had gouged deep wounds into the ChromSten-armored hull. Some of them threatened loaded magazines, and although the laser-pumped fusion warheads wouldn’t detonate from impact, the power systems of the missile drives would . . . and take the entire ship with them.
But at least the phase drive had suffered no further damage. In fact, it was actually in better shape than for the last encounter, so they’d have a few more gravities to play with and more time on the power. And while they’d lost launchers, they’d also used less than half the total missile inventory against their first opponent, so the next fight would be nearly even.
Except for the cruiser’s ability to dance rings around them.
“Oh, I was just thinking about our ship’s namesake,” Krasnitsky answered the question with a grim smile. “I wonder if he ever thought ‘What the heck am I doing this for?’”
* * *
Roger watched the external monitors as the giant docking hatches opened. The perfect blackness of space beckoned as the tractor moorings cut loose, and the shuttles drifted forward. As they cleared the ship’s field, DeGlopper’s artificial gravity fell away, and they were in freefall.
“I forgot to ask, Your Highness,” Pahner said tactfully. “How are you in microgravity?” He carefully avoided any mention of the excuses O’Casey had made to explain the prince’s “indisposition” the first evening aboard.
“I play null-gee handball quite a bit,” the prince said in an offhand manner as he swiveled the monitor around to watch the ship disappearing in the distance behind them. “I don’t have any problems with freefall at all.” He smiled evilly for just a moment. “Eleanora, on the other hand . . .”
“I’m gonna diiie,” the chief of staff moaned, clutching the motion sickness bag to her mouth as another wave of wracking nausea washed over her.
“I’ve got a Mo-Fix injector around here somewhere,” Kosutic said with the half-malicious chuckle of one who possessed a cast-iron stomach. Even the smell of the ejecta was survivable; it wasn’t like she hadn’t smelled it before.
“I’m allergic.” Eleanora’s voice was muffled by the plastic bag. Then she leaned back and zipped the bag shut. “Oh, Goddd. . . .”
“Oh,” Kosutic said in more sympathetic tones. She shook her head. “We’re going to be out here for a couple of days, you realize?”
“Yes,” Eleanora said miserably. “I do realize that. But I’d forgotten these shuttles don’t have artificial gravity.”
“I don’t think we can rotate, either,” the sergeant major told her. “We’re going to do a long, slow burn. I don’t think we can do that and rotate at the same time.”
“I’ll live . . . I think.” The chief of staff suddenly ripped the bag open and buried her face in the contents. “Arrggg.”
Kosutic leaned back and shook her head.
“I can see this is gonna be a great trip,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“On a scale from one to ten,” Captain Krasnitsky muttered, “I give this trip a negative four hundred.”
He coughed and shook his head to clear the mist of blood the cough brought up. The instructions on the box were fairly clear. Now if he could just hold together long enough to enter the codes.
Finding the keys for this particular device had been tough. Talcott, who’d had one, had been cut in half on his way back from Engineering. And, of course, the third had been in the suit of the acting engineer. He’d felt awful about having to cut it off of her to get to the device, but he’d had no choice. Tactical had had the fourth, and Navigation the fifth; those two had been easy to snag after the hit on
the bridge.
Somewhat to his surprise, the ship had held together. And now, the Saints, after receiving the surrender transmission and the recording of the prince ordering Krasnitsky to surrender, were practically salivating. Capturing the prince would set every member of the ship’s crew up for life, even in the austere Saint theocracy.
There was no plot here in the armory, but he didn’t need one to know what was happening. He could hear the parasite cruiser docking onto the larger ship, and the concussion as the Saint Marines forced the airlocks for boarding.
Lessee. If I have all five keys, but only one activator, I have to set a delay. Okay. Makes sense.
“Captain Delaney, this is Lieutenant Scalucci.” The Caravazan Marine paused and looked around the bridge. “We’ve taken the bridge but no prisoners. We are encountering resistance from the crew. So far, no prisoners. They’re fighting hard—some of them in powered armor—and not surrendering as I would’ve expected. We have yet to encounter the Prince’s bodyguards.” He paused and looked around again. “There’s something about this I don’t like.”
“Tell him to keep his opinions to himself!” Chaplain Panella snapped. “And find the Prince!”
Captain Delaney glanced at the chaplain, then keyed his throat mike.
“Continue the mission, Lieutenant,” he said. “Be careful of ambushes. They apparently haven’t surrendered after all, whatever their captain said.”
“It doesn’t appear that way, Sir. Scalucci, out.”
The captain turned to face the chaplain squarely.
“We’ll find the Prince, Chaplain. But losing people doing it is stupid. I wish we’d had a pinnace to send the Marines over.” An unlucky hit to the boat bay, unfortunately, had settled that. “If the Prince weren’t on board, I’d put this down as a trap!”
