by Ric Locke
“Acknowledged, Green Three,” Joshua came back with a tinge of irony in his tone. He could see the deck from his perch on the O-1 of the officers’ quarters, and couldn’t have missed what was going on. He also knew retarders wouldn’t be needed for some time. “All hands, launch in one tle,” he added. “We’re up first as usual so our guests can watch. Hornets, then Tomcats.”
The nekrit were standing around in pairs, leaning against their ships or in little chatting groups. They watched, ostentatiously “not watching” with eyes averted except for short flicking glances, as the deck crews deployed in the half-military, half-artistic patterns they’d developed. Peters was reminded of—what?—hah. They reminded him of Gonsoles and the rest of the tough guys clustered around Everett. All they needed was chews of tobacco.
Plane captains began taxiing Hornets out of the hangar access. All of them had panels hanging open, and the redshirted armorers approached each in turn, making sure the lasers were set properly for the coming event. Mechanics followed, giving each a last once-over.
Once the Hornets were in ready position the plane captains dismounted, meeting the pilots with sharp salutes at the base of the boarding ladders. Pilots boarded, and plane captains followed to help with securing straps, umbilicals, and helmets. Finally the plane captains swarmed down the ladders and removed them with help from waiting crews, the canopies went down, and the planes moved forward into Senior Chief Warnocki’s territory, guided by yellow-shirts with lighted batons.
Crossed batons brought them to a halt, and a little baton-twirl suggested a final check of all onboard systems. That done, the pilot nodded; the ground guide skipped out of the way and brought the batons parallel and horizontal, and Warnocki saluted. The pilot returned the salute, and the Senior Chief converted his gesture into a spin, ending with his right arm at full extension toward the bow, finger pointed. The Hornet shot down the bay and disappeared, and the next one began moving up.
Pretty as a picture and stylized as ballet; Peters wondered for the umpteenth time what would happen when they had to go back to steam cats, howling turbines, and limited deck space after doing it this way for two years.
Thirty seconds between launches, a nice leisurely pace, got the ten Hornets off in five minutes, and Tomcats started moving up by pairs. Side-by-side launches were possible with the wings folded back, if they didn’t care if they whiffed the theatrically unimpressed nekrit with the wingtips. Apparently they didn’t. The first pair missed an idly chatting group by inches, or so it seemed from where Peters stood. The nekrit seemed to agree, moving toward the walls before the next brace launched, waving hostile gestures at the planes.
The humans’ launch cycle ended with 107, a singleton now and forever, or until they lost another one. Deck crews began moving to their standby stations against the walls; it was the guests’ turn.
The nekrit were straggling, two by two, toward their craft, chatting and waving their arms at one another. The sailors didn’t touch anything as the aliens saddled up and began moving out in a disorganized swarm.
They didn’t want any help; need was another thing. One of the ships wouldn’t start, or something. The larger of the two crew(men?) piled out the hatch and started beating on a whatsit with a bar. The smaller one got out, made a human-looking shrug and grimace at the watchers, and tapped its (buddy?) on the shoulder. They exchanged a few words and a mutual shrug, then moved off to the quarters hatch, leaving their box where it sat. And that, apparently, was that. “Christ,” said Rupert. “I’ve seen more discipline in a biker gang.”
“You’ve never seen a biker gang,” said Peters.
“Bullshit,” said Rupert. “Outlaws used to come through town pretty regular when there was still gas.” That would have been when Rupert was about five or six.
“Right,” said Peters. “Come on, let’s go get some chow. This shit will still be here when we get back.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Recovery a half-ande later started out as a duplicate of the previous day, bar one less ugly box. They didn’t come in with quite the same verve; Retard Three caught two of them before they broke Four. Parking was different, too, since Chief Warnocki had a squad of deck apes in kathir suits with duty belts and rifles. The nekrit seemed to know what slug-thowers were, and an M22 up the nose was enough incentive to get their ships more or less lined up with their nonfunctional companion before the Hornets and Tomcats needed the bay.
That part was a joy and a pleasure, as usual with the first-line crews. Each of the graceful darts hit near as dammit dead center, and their velocities were so closely matched that Retard Three had no business at all. One, two, three, through nine and ten, then seven Tomcats, one every thirty seconds, easy as pie, regular as clockwork. It looked like they did it every day, which they didn’t, quite.
The nekrit headed for the guest quarters hatch in their usual sloppy gang. This was the first group they’d encountered who didn’t seem to feel that a little ceremony was appropriate.
“Well, that’s it, I guess,” said Howell, as the human pilots exchanged glances and began moving off toward their quarters in their own loose group.
“Yeah,” said Peters. “Wonder how it went?”
Rupert sneered. “You have to ask?”
* * *
Peters slung his helmet on an empty chair and began shuffling out of his flak jacket. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“You have to ask?” Todd was disposing of his own deck gear the same way. The planes were out for the second round; they were taking it by turns to eat before getting back and preparing for recovery.
“Hell, yeah, I have to ask. Did our guys just win, or smash the bastards?”
“Well, Commander Collins was grinning something fierce,” Todd noted. “Based on what’s gone on before, I’d say that means we beat their butts as usual.”
Peters nodded. “Wonder why most of these folks ain’t got much idea how to go about it.”
Todd shook his head. “Well, from what I can see, for most of them it’s a kind of game, they don’t take it as seriously as our guys do.”
“Yeah.” Peters thought a moment. “I reckon there’s another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, if zifthkakik are expensive it means they probably ain’t got very many of ‘em. I’m just speculatin’ here, but maybe there ain’t enough spaceships around to get into wars with.”
Todd nodded. “That could be. Whereas our guys have been fighting people with airplanes for a century and a half. Lots of practice.”
“Yeah. Say, did you hear what Jacks came up with?” When the response was a negative headshake, Peters described what they’d learned about nekrit reproductive systems.
“Shit.” Todd made a sour grimace and shook his head. “You know, before we got out here I’d never thought about it. There’s men, and there’s women, and that’s the way it works, right?”
Peters grinned back. “Well, we done found out it ain’t necessarily so.”
“Yeah… It doesn’t seem like the basis for any kind of society we’d like. Nasty.”
“You got that right.”
“You say Se’en came up with this? Has anybody passed the word?”
Peters frowned. “I dunno. I reckon Dreelig oughta know about it.”
“Dreelig.” Todd’s tone was dismissive.
“Yeah, he ain’t been distinguishing himself lately. What’s your point? The nekrit are here today, they’ll be gone tomorrow. It don’t make no difference where little nekrit come from, ‘cept for us to snigger about.”
Todd picked at his food. “It occurrs to me that a society based on a system like that wouldn’t include much in the way of ideas like fairness,” he pointed out. “The nekrit lost the ship contest. Who’s to say they wouldn’t like to get a little of their own back some other way?”
“So? The only ones they’d be likely to go after would be the officers, and they’re pretty well isolated.”
“Not all o
f them. Remember the crew that couldn’t get their shitbox started?”
“Yeah. They didn’t even try it the second time.”
“Right. They’ve been lounging around the ready room waiting for the rest of it to be over with, and not all of our guys are out.”
“Alternate crews?”
“And some of the primaries.” Todd grinned. “If you want a clue as to how it went, there’s one for you. Half the flight crews this time are alternates.”
“And you think we oughta warn somebody about the possibility of dirty work.”
“Yes, I do.”
Peters sighed. “I ain’t real anxious to get noticed again, but I’m afraid you’re right.”
The watchstander in the duty office on the main deck wasn’t the brightest bulb in the string. “What’s up?” he wanted to know.
“You seen the two nekrit that didn’t go out?” Peters asked him.
“You mean the aliens? Yeah, they hung around here for a while, then they went upstairs.”
“Anybody else up there?”
“Medics, a couple of the pilots. What’s it to you?”
Peters didn’t feel like taking the time to fill in the blanks. “Need to visit the infirmary.”
The sailor shrugged. “Sign the book.” Peters complied, and the watchstander added, “Don’t dawdle, and don’t go past the third door. You ain’t supposed to be fooling around up there.”
“I know the drill,” Peters said shortly. “Come on, Todd.” They took the steps two at a time.
Silence, except for a low murmur of voices from the wardroom. “I ain’t real happy with this,” Peters observed, keeping his voice low.
“Nor me,” Todd conceded. “We could tell the medics and let them pass the word.”
Peters considered. “Probably the best thing… what’s that?
“That” was a bump or thud behind a door. “What’s in here?” asked Peters worriedly when it came again, this time accompanied by a low wordless cry.
“How do I know?” demanded Todd. “They don’t exactly set up tours.”
“We better check it out.”
“Yeah.” The two sailors looked at one another for a moment. Finally Todd grabbed the door handle; Peters stood in a half crouch, ready to move or block as necessary. He nodded. Todd yanked.
“Whathefuckisthis!” Two nekrit, one big and one little, had somebody down on the floor, and there was a pair of khaki pants slung alongside one of the cabinets. Neither sailor had seen a nekrit wearing khakis.
Peters pushed off against the bulkhead just as one of the nekrit, the little one, stood up. Well, Hell, at least I get to do the easy one, he thought, then found out he was wrong; the fairy nekrit was wiry, strong, and agile.
The big one moved to help the little one, and the person on the floor was Lt(j.g.) Briggs. Todd leaped into the scuffle and got lucky, and a little help from the victim; Briggs tripped the big one, who fell just where a size-nine boondocker could connect properly, right behind the ear. Best of all, the alien had some kind of gadget in a little flap holster. Todd didn’t know what it did, but he yanked it out, shoved it against the little one’s head, and mashed the button.
Nothing happened except that the alien went white, started gabbling, and quit squirming around. The other one cooled off too, and Peters, who had almost been down for the count, started squirming out of his flak jacket. “Loan me your knife.” It wasn’t a request.
Todd pulled out his flick-knife, flipped it open, and handed it over, and Peters began ripping the tough fabric. Todd moved to help, and the two made sure the nekrit were securely tied before turning to the object of all the ruckus.
“Jeez, Ms. Briggs, you OK?” asked Todd.
“No, God-damnit, I am not OK!” she said. “Todd, is that you? Who the Hell’s that with you?”
“Yeah, it’s me, ma’am,” said Todd. “This is my buddy Peters, from the retarder crews. Come on, ma’am, we need to get you to the doc.”
“Shit, no,” said Briggs. “Look, thanks, Todd, but just help me get back to my quarters. Damn, that hurts.” The woman was shaking, white, and shivery.
“Come on, Ms. Briggs, you gotta see the doc,” Peters urged. “You don’t know what we know.”
“What the Hell do you know?” It was a scream.
“Never mind, ma’am, just come on, sick bay’s just across the hall.” Peters grabbed the woman to keep her from falling. “Todd, this ain’t workin’. You go get Doc Steward and a stretcher. I’ll hold the fort.” Todd nodded and left. It didn’t take very long for him to get back with the doctor and a couple of corpsmen.
“What the Hell is this all about?” Steward demanded. “Holy shit,” he added when he saw the half-disrobed woman and the two aliens on the floor. “Somebody better have some answers.”
“Just a little friendly rape, sir,” said Peters grimly. He had maneuvered Briggs so that she was half sitting on a chair, half leaning against him. She was white-faced, semiconscious and losing it. The two nekrit were groaning and writhing, testing their bonds.
“Jeesus,” said the doctor. “Wilson! Kiel! Get this woman on the gurney. You’re Peters, right? What’s this alien sex crap your buddy was spouting?”
“Let’s get Ms. Briggs on the stretcher first, sir,” said Peters. He and the two corpsmen maneuvered the woman onto the pallet and the medics moved her out. Peters, Todd, and the doctor regarded the two aliens as Peters began repeating the story.
By the time it was done Steward was grim. “All right, I know what to do about Ms. Briggs. What do we do about these beauties?”
The two sailors exchanged whispers, and Todd acquired a grin that showed no amusement whatever. “Sir, with your permission I’m going over to sick bay,” he told the doctor. “She knows me, maybe I can help a little.” He handed the gadget to Peters, who transferred the knife to his left hand to take it.
“Good idea,” the doctor nodded. Todd nodded back and left, and Steward turned to Peters. “I take it you’ve got an idea about what to do about this.”
“Yes, sir, I got a notion,” said Peters. He looked down at the nearest nekrit, the smaller one. “With all respect, sir, you oughta be takin’ care of Ms. Briggs first, no telling what kind of poisons these bastards squirted into her.”
Steward looked at him a moment. “I also take it that your proposed solution is nothing I’d care to get involved with,” he said quietly. Peters just looked back without much expression, and Steward glanced briefly at the two aliens, then left, shaking his head. Peters grimaced without amusement. He hadn’t expected the man to be so quick on the uptake.
Todd slipped back through the door after a little while, and stood in the doorway bouncing a baggie full of something red up and down in his hand as the two nekrit, now fully conscious, watched.
“That what I think it is?” asked Peters.
“It’s what you suggested.”
“How do we work this?”
“You’ve still got the knife, right?” Todd was smiling. He started exploring around the front of the larger one’s buckle, punched the emergency override combination, and pulled the kathir suit open to expose a muscular chest and belly. “Just cut anywhere.”
“Right.” Peters set to work. “That’ll do it,” he said finally. “Go see if you can borrow a stretcher, we’ll tote our friends down to the ops bay. I ain’t in the mood to untie ‘em so’s they can walk.”
* * *
Neither of them had ever been in the captain’s office before. Captain’s suite, actually; it opened off the bridge access corridor just aft of the double doors. The walls were paneled in dark vertical strips with prominent grain, and there were accents of brass and red here and there, including the heavy desk the secretary sat behind.
She gestured and smiled, and Peters pushed the latch. More of the same paneling; the desk was bigger, with inlaid panels of contrasting wood. Preligotis sat behind the desk, looking genial, and Prethuvenigis the trader chief sat in a wooden armchair set at righ
t angles to the desk. “Come in, come in,” the captain said without rising.
They eased into the room. “Please take seats,” Preligotis urged. “You look worried. There’s no need for worry. Sit, sit.”
Prethuvenigis was smiling faintly. “Do please sit,” he urged in his odd accent. “We have a spot of business to conduct.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peters. He eased into another spindly armchair, facing Preligotis, and Todd followed clumsily. There was a short pause as the captain and the trader inspected the sailors, and the sailors took in a few details: pens and pencils on the desk, a framed picture of a sailing ship on the wall behind Preligotis, a tall brass lamp by Prethuvenigis’s chair.
“You take important matters into your own hands, do you not?” the captain inquired by way of an opening.
“Yes, I suppose we did,” Peters said without implying apology.
Preligotis smiled faintly. “If I understand your customs, you must be expecting to be disciplined,” he noted. “As I’m sure you’ve learned, we do many things differently. Tell me: what do your superiors among the humans think of the recent events?”
Well, that was a thing. “We are under threat of severe discipline for assaulting the nekrit,” Peters explained, with a bared-teeth gesture that couldn’t be mistaken for a smile. “When Commander Bolton returned and discovered the situation he was extremely angry.” That was understatement. The Commander had ranted for several minutes on the subject of insubordination and underlings taking matters into their own stupid incompetent hands. The “severe discipline” they were under threat of was a summary Court; it would have already been under way if they hadn’t been summoned up here.
“At you? That doesn’t seem reasonable,” Preligotis commented.
“From his point of view it might seem reasonable,” Peters pointed out. “He thinks of the races we meet as potential trading partners or enemies, and doesn’t care to offend them unnecessarily.”
Prethuvenigis laughed out loud. “Kh kh kh! Peters, how does your society manage if people with such insight are kept in subordinate positions?
