by Ric Locke
“Highest rate’s a Third Class,” said Joshua grimly. “That may have to change.”
“No network?” Hernandez was incredulous.
“How loud can you holler?” Peters asked. The others chuckled, but Hernandez was wide-eyed, holding onto the mouse like it was a lifeline. He probably hadn’t been away from a high-speed network for more than a few hours for the last ten years.
Chief Joshua looked at his watch. “That’s enough for now,” he said. “Let’s break for lunch.” He glanced around the room, eyes resting at the last on Todd. “We’ll go to the EM club, everybody can get in. I’m buying. I take it you two don’t have any money on you?”
Peters flushed slightly. “We can buy our own lunch, Chief,” he said, shushing Todd when he tried to object. “Not much more than that, though,” he admitted. “Not much call for money in outer space.” He would remember that, much later.
Lunch in a room full of people with noses was a relief. The food wasn’t much, mystery meat with green beans and mashed potatoes, but it was familiar and therefore comforting. They didn’t discuss their business at the table, confining themselves to chitchat about the world in general and the Navy in particular. Things hadn’t changed much, and Peters realized that it was only Thursday, after all: they’d been away only three days.
Back at the hangar, Hernandez went straight for his desk and started punching keys, and Chief Joshua called the rest to order. “OK, action assignments. Gill, you’ll be checking into medical consequences of the long days, right?” When the Chief Corpsman nodded, Joshua went on, “Warnocki, I’m gonna depend on you to scare up welders and briefing chairs. I’ll have my hands full chasing down radios.” He shook his head. “Hernandez, come out of that for a minute, will you?”
“Sure, Chief,” the programmer said. “What’s up?”
Joshua snorted. “Programmers. You know anything about setting up a network?”
Hernandez shook his head. “I could program one, no problem, but I don’t know much about the hardware. You need Interior Communications for that.”
“Don’t I know it.” Joshua sighed heavily. “I’ll look down the roster, see what I can come up with. Howard, I want you to get with our boys here and see how much of the language they’ve learned.”
“Aye, Chief.” The CT spared Peters a look that wasn’t too pleased.
“Take about an hour at it,” Joshua went on, oblivious to Howard’s attitude. “By then we’ll have a first cut at making a list and working out how to fill it. You may get interrupted, so don’t waste time.”
“Aye, Chief,” Howard said sourly. “Come on,” he told Peters and Todd. “We’ll use the old SDO’s office.”
They sat on straight chairs with split upholstery in the cubicle that had once housed the Squadron Duty Officer, discussing the Grallt language and discovering in the process that, first, neither Peters nor Todd really knew all that much, and, second, that Peters in particular was a lousy teacher. It may have been personality. Howard wasn’t easy to like, and neither Peters nor Todd saw any particular percentage in investing the effort.
The only interruption came when Hernandez took Peters’s handheld. Peters paid nearly no attention until they’d broken with Howard and gone back into the main room. “There you are,” the programmer said, holding the gadget up for display. “Call up the time function like normal. Then push ‘G’ for Grallt and it shows the Grallt time on a graphic like this.” He held up Dee’s watch. “It’s probably as good as this mechanical thing. To set it in Grallt mode, push up-arrow for forward and down-arrow for back, then enter to confirm. It’ll adjust itself if you set it once in a while.”
“How do I get normal time back?” Peters was alert enough to ask.
“Just push the time function again,” Hernandez shrugged. “Hey, it isn’t fancy, but it’ll get the job done. I’ll do something better when we get aboard.”
“Can it convert a future time?” Peters asked. “I still don’t know exactly when the dli is comin’ to pick us up.”
Hernandez stared into space. “Sure,” he said finally. “Just act like you’re setting it until you get the right time display, but don’t push enter. Then when you push G it’ll show the converted time. Push time once more, and it goes back to the current time. I didn’t design it to do that, but it ought to work. Give it back; I want to try it. What time do you need to convert?”
“Fourth utle of the sixth ande.” When Hernandez looked blank, Peters shook his head. “Sorry, that’s the names of the time units. Big needle on this mark here, and the middle one here.” He indicated it on Dee’s watch.
“That’s the other way, but it still ought to work.” Hernandez played with keys. “Yep, it works,” he said with satisfaction. “Not too handy, but like I said, I’ll do better when I have the time. And it looks like your ride will be here a little before 2030.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent in discussion, sometimes descending to raucous argument, of what the detachment would need for the voyage. Joshua didn’t have many questions, but he did have a few acerbic comments. His attitude puzzled Peters a little, until he realized that the basis of it was simple: he and Todd didn’t have enough chevrons for the Master Chief to take them seriously.
Warnocki gave them some credit, actually listening to what they had to say, but even he was more disbelieving than otherwise. Gill and the corpsmen were investigating time-shift effects, with Hernandez helping with the net search, and at any rate neither Peters nor Todd had learned much that would be interesting to the medics. The worst was Howard. CTs had to be bright to get the rate, and got a lot of training; they were used to being the smartest people in any given room, and having a couple of juniors ahead of him made this one grumpy and hard to get along with.
Around 1500 they broke for coffee and head calls, and when they got back a man and a woman, dressed upscale and carrying briefcases, were sitting at the table with the Master Chief, with a pair of Federal Security goons in green blazers standing behind them, arms folded. “Like you to meet Agent Styles and Agent Cade of the IRS,” Joshua introduced them, face and voice studiously neutral. “We’ll be gone for quite some time, and we have to have our ducks in a row with the tax people. Agent Styles?”
The man stood. “Thank you, Mr. Joshua. Gentlemen, as you can imagine this situation causes a great deal of difficulty for us at the IRS. You’re scheduled to leave before the end of the tax year, and you may not return for as many as three cycles. We’ve carefully studied the Executive Order that authorizes this expedition, and the tax implications aren’t at all clear.” He hesitated as the sailors exchanged glances, then went on, “This has been put together much too quickly for us to determine policy. As an interim measure, we need for you all to complete your forms for 2053 before you depart. For those of you with no income other than your Navy pay the end of the tax year will be as usual; simply include your pay for December as income. If you have other income, you’ll have to fill out a 9327A to end the tax year on 1 December. We can stretch the regulations to push your December income into taxable year 2054. After that we don’t know what provisions will be made.”
One of the sailors raised a hand. “Mr. Styles, won’t we be on combat exclusion?”
“Please stand and give your name,” Styles said. “And I prefer ‘Agent Styles,’ if you don’t mind.”
“Kiel, Corpsman Second Class.” Kiel stood slowly. “In an exclusion zone we don’t pay taxes on our Navy pay. Won’t it be that way on this deployment?”
Styles shook his head. “That determination hasn’t been made, Mr. Kiel, and in any case you’re required to file even when the combat exclusion is in effect. Furthermore, income other than your Navy pay and benefits isn’t subject to the exclusion; you would have to file and pay tax if you have such outside income.” The agent pursed his lips in an expression of distaste. “The best we can do is let you terminate the tax year early, so you’ll be in compliance for 2053. Further determinations will have to made when
you return.”
“It would really be best if you had an agent who stayed behind,” the woman put in. “Your pay and other income will be accrued here, and such an agent could file for you. There’d be the irregularity that your signatures wouldn’t be present, but that’s minor. I’m sure the penalty could be waived.”
“Hire a lawyer to keep our tax forms current while we’re gone?” Hernandez objected. “That’d eat up my whole paycheck.”
Styles regarded him with disfavor. “We can’t help that. You’re required to file.”
“Perhaps a dependent,” the woman suggested.
“None of us has dependents,” Chief Gill objected. “It was one of the requirements for volunteers.”
“Then a tax lawyer would really be best,” the woman noted.
“But it isn’t an option for most of us. Do you have any other suggestions?” Gill asked.
Styles lifted his chin. “We are not authorized to advise taxpayers on methods of compliance,” he said frostily. “Agent Cade has already gone much farther than she should have. We will leave a supply of paper forms with Mr. Joshua for those of you who aren’t able to file electronically or don’t care to. We very much prefer electronic filing, but we understand that it may be impossible in the circumstances. Beyond that, all we can do is advise you to comply with the law. There are severe penalties for not complying fully.” He looked at the Master Chief. “I believe that’s all we have for you.”
The Master Chief nodded but didn’t rise. “Thank you, Agent Styles,” he said in a monotone.
Styles stared for a long moment. “Laura,” he said, half-questioning, and made a little comealong gesture with his left hand. One of the FedSec goons went to the door, looked up and down the hall, and nodded shortly. The woman stood and went ahead of Styles, who glanced impassively back at the group as he left, and the other goon followed, keeping his head turned toward the sailors until he closed the door.
“Hunh,” said Gill contemptuously. No one else commented, and the Master Chief brought his hand down on the table in an explosive slap, wham! “Let’s get back on track,” he said. “I’ll pass out the forms when I get them. Chief Gill, I think we were talking about foods and allergies before we broke for coffee. Any more you want to ask about?”
They broke for chow, at the EM club again, and got back at it, and it was almost twenty hours when Chief Joshua finally called a halt. He handed Peters and Todd copies of the IRS forms, then whistled up the Suburban and driver that had brought them to the Naval Air Station. Dee’s watch read a few tle before the fourth utle when they pulled up by the athletic field at Mayport. “Thanks,” Peters told the driver.
“No prob’, man.”
“And here’s our ride.” Todd pointed above the admin building, where the dli was ghosting in, still improbably silent. The driver’s eyes were wide in the dark. “See you another time,” Todd told him.
“Yeah, see ya,” the driver said abstractedly, eyes following the white shape as it settled on the grass. A Marine challenged them, but contented himself with a cursory scan of their ID blocks, and Dreelig appeared at the hatch. It said a lot about their day that his alien face looked welcoming, a comforting relief.
Chapter Eight
“You look very tired,” Dreeling observed. “Were you successful?”
Peters just grunted. Todd answered, “Yes, I think we were, but it was pretty wearing. What about yourself?”
“Very well.” Dreelig was smiling. “We did not accomplish much, but the social interactions were fascinating. Secretary Averill was very deferential to Donollo.”
“That’s great,” Todd told him. “Oh, shit, I almost forgot. Dreelig, what’s the ship made out of?”
“I don’t understand the question,” the Grallt confessed.
Todd waved at the ceiling. “The ship up there. What material is it made of? Steel, aluminum, titanium, or what?”
Dreelig’s eyes were wide. “I have never thought to ask. Do you need to know at this moment?”
Todd yawned. “Yes, right now if possible. I need to send a message.”
“Then please wait a few moments. I will ask Gell, perhaps he knows.” The two sailors stood just inside the hatch, glad to be out of the wind, until the Grallt returned. “Gell doesn’t know the word in your language, and neither do I,” Dreelig told them. “He says it is the substance found at the center of planets like this one, or almost the same. Does that help?”
“Not really,” Todd said, but then a dim memory surfaced. “You know, it does help after all. I’ll be right back.” He climbed down the step to chat with one of the sentries. “I left a message with the Marines,” he told them when he got back. “God only knows if Warnocki’ll get it.” He yawned again and stretched. “I am beat, let me tell you.”
“So what’d you tell ‘em?” Peters wanted to know.
“Hunh?”
“The Marines,” Peters said patiently. “What did you tell the Marines to tell Chief Warnocki? That the ship is made of?”
“Oh, that,” said Todd. “I remembered an old nature vid. The center of the Earth is iron. I can’t imagine making a machine out of iron, it’s too weak and brittle, so I told the Marine to tell Warnocki it was steel.”
Peters grunted. “Hunh. That’ll please him.”
“Not that I give a damn. Come on, let’s cut the yak and get out of here. I’ve got a date with a bunk mattress.”
Gell was in his seat, idly fingering the flight control, when they got to the cockpit and flopped into the black chairs. The pilot gave them a toothy grin, and Peters was too tired to realize that he’d recognized the expression, just replied the same way, fingered the seat control to full recline, and went promptly to sleep. The next thing he knew Gell was shaking him awake, and they were sitting in the ops bay, with the sun shining brightly on the ceiling. That last failed to matter. They stumbled up to their quarters, tossed the paperwork on the desks, folded their uniforms and tucked them away out of sheer inertia of habit, and flopped into their bunks.
* * *
When they’d come aboard the first time, by chance the Grallt schedule was more or less in sync with theirs, and they had adjusted fairly quickly. Now they had been forced back into Earth time, which was nearly in opposite phase, and had to begin adjustment all over again. They managed to nap during the ande after their return and make the next meal, but were really dragging when the fifth ande rolled around and they were finally able to hit their bunks again.
Dee and Dreelig were shuttling up and down to Washington on Earth time schedule, and weren’t available except for a few words at an occasional meal. Unfortunately, they were also the only Grallt other than Znereda the instructor who spoke English well. Peters physically dragged the steward called Peer, who seemed to be more or less in charge, to Znereda’s office and spent some time sketching and handwaving. After that they had a couple of buffers, which didn’t look at all remarkable, some pads, and a supply of cleaner and wax, in metal tins instead of plastic bottles. The stewards all thought they were nuts, but they got not only the officers’ living quarters but the spaces intended for operations offices clean and the decks gleaming.
When officer’s country was done they started on the enlisted berthing spaces. Peters didn’t ask, just collected the crew, led them over, and started handing out assignments. A confident bearing and “follow me, men!” seemed to work just as well on Grallt as it did on humans. They didn’t do a thorough job, just dusted the corridors, cleaned the decks, and laid down wax, but the place looked a hundred percent better, and they could do the individual rooms when the other enlisted got on board. After meeting Chief Joshua, neither Peters nor Todd was eager to leave much scope for apologies.
They did manage one more session with Znereda, this one devoted to numbers, writing, and emergency calls. Those last weren’t of much use, since according to the instructor Todd had heard right: the shipwide PA system hadn’t worked in years. Peters felt sure that a handful of electronics types
would be able to fix it easily, but there wasn’t any way to let Chief Joshua know they needed the supplies.
When they headed for their bunks after fifthmeal they found a surprise. Lying on the study desk was a square white envelope. Inside was a thin sheaf of square pieces of something thin and tough, with noticeable fibers in a random pattern, like the plastic material some courier envelopes were made of but with a smoother surface. Each was about ten centimeters on a side, one face printed with a complicated design of swirls and Grallt writing in blue and bluish gray, the other quartered in blue and white squares. He counted them: eight.
What the Hell is this? he thought, then realized that Todd had come through the head and said the same thing. They didn’t normally do that. As a rule, they met in the head but didn’t invade one another’s quarters. “You have any idea what this is all about?” Todd demanded, waving a similar sheaf of—whatever.
“Fuck if I know,” Peters growled. “Whatever it is, I got eight of them. How about you?”
“The same,” said Todd.
“Well, shit.” The long days had left both sailors grumpy and irritable, and they had figured out that there wasn’t much point in trying to think or communicate just before bedtime. “Fuck it,” Peters decided, fingering the slips. “I dunno, and I ain’t gonna try to figure it out now. Me for the rack, an’ I suggest you do the same. We gotta be fresh as a daisy for Commander Harlan Shithead Bolton in a few hours.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Todd. “See you later.” He pushed the head door shut, and Peters tossed the slips back on the desk and started squirming out of the suit. He wanted that shower.
* * *
They didn’t know if the mess room would be operating that early, but set off across the bay anyway, somewhat rested, dressed, but hungry and hoping. It was open, but there were only a few Grallt around, none of them looking very alert, and the waiters were moving slower than usual.
