“Got her!” Harry shouted. “Firing one and two!”
Even though I knew that they hadn’t actually fired any missiles, I instinctively braced myself.
Annalee shrieked in outrage. “Don’t shoot yet, you half-wit!”
“Reloading one and two,” Dinky said laconically.
There was a pregnant pause. Then Harry replied. “What’s wrong, honey? Somebody steal your broom?”
“Goddamn pig!” McHugh hissed after a few seconds of silence. The simulator buzzed twice to show two clean misses.
The two of them started to argue. “All right. Back to work,” Catarina called out. “Give it another half hour, and then you can break.”
“It’s just about dinnertime, isn’t it?” Harry said innocently. “Who’s slopping the little piggies here?”
“Belay mat, Harry,” Catarina growled. “You too, McHugh.”
“Aye-aye, ma’am,” a chastened Harry said, and McHugh said something that might charitably have been construed as concurrence.
“Ma’am, I don’t feel so good,” I commented as we walked toward our cabin.
“We haven’t even started manoeuvring yet,” she commented. “When you and I start twisting the ship around, we’ll really test their reflexes.” She looked at me. “Beam has the better launcher crew. She has to hit that cruiser before the cruiser even realises she’s there.”
“I see.”
Catarina read my expression and punched me very lightly on the shoulder. “Go get changed, and we’ll get started.”
I unpacked, slipped into my coveralls, and went up to the bridge.
As I took my seat and began checking the panel, Catarina mentioned, “Beam brought a bucketful of microrobots aboard to see what was wrong with the ship. The worst problem we found was in the right secondary control node. The ceramic wiring running through there is corrupted, which is why we’ve been having so many problems with the lower drive and the starboard impeller.”
I whistled. “How did that happen?”
Catarina looked embarrassed. “Bernie’s cabin is laid over that node, and Beam found a bubble under Bernie’s bed where there’s a split in the seam between the wall and the deckplates. Bernie’s cat has been using the split as a part-time litter box. The cat urine interferes with the superconductivity of the ceramic wiring.”
I started choking.
“Everything running through that node needs to be replaced,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the time or the materials to do the job.”
The situation defied comment, but I thought of something to say anyway. “You know, it just occurred to me that if Bernie’s cat hadn’t been screwing up the wiring, the ship probably wouldn’t have been bucking like a bronco when Davie Lloyd was holding a knife to Frido’s throat. That means—”
“Yes. In a manner of speaking, the stupid cat did kill Frido.” She smiled. “Shall we try some combat manoeuvring?”
We warned everybody aboard we were going to stop the spin and ordered them to strap down where they were. Commander Hiro and Bucky both showed up to observe. Catarina had control. The next four minutes were pretty wild as she put the Scupper through her paces: half loops, reverse thrusts, Immelmanns. Then a red check light went off inside my head. “Cut thrust,” I yelled a second or two before the problem showed on the board.
Catarina heard me and chopped back, too late. The starboard impeller hiccupped and cut out. The ship yawed, which is a polite spacer way of saying that she started flipping cartwheels.
Catarina slowly brought her under control to a rest position as the starboard impeller finally resumed functioning.
I shut the intercom off so we wouldn’t have to listen to any comments from the cheap seats.
“Oh, I say,” Bucky said, his tiny eyes glistening, “that was fun! Can we do it again?”
“I suppose we have to rate this as a qualified success,” Hiro said with a feeble attempt at levity.
“It’s no go,” Catarina said, her face paler than usual. “Even for basic manoeuvres, I have to fly this ship well past her tolerances, and she’s not holding up.”
“What are you saying?” Hiro asked.
“I’m saying that if we fight this ship, we can’t count on lasting the first five minutes,” Catarina said sombrely.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “I can tell you when she’s going to blow. Let me fly her.” Catarina knew combat manoeuvring, but I knew the Scupper.
Hiro winced. His body language said, Why me, Lord?
“Ken,” Catarina said gently, “I know you know how to fly this ship, but your military specialties are what?”
“Navigation and fleet logistics,” I admitted.
“I may be rusty, but you haven’t even had the rudiments of small-ship combat manoeuvring. You don’t have the instincts. At close quarters, a second or two hesitating over whether to turn or roll will cause us to eat a missile. You can’t fly her. I have the training, but any combat manoeuvring I do will take this ship well past the red line where she’s unreliable.”
“But, modesty aside, I’m probably the only person alive who knows this ship well enough to fly her at the edge and still bring her back more or less in one piece.” I thought for a minute. “Unfortunately, you’re right about my instincts. If my instincts were worth anything, obviously I wouldn’t be on the ship to begin with.”
There was a brief silence which Bucky graced with an observation. “Oh, dear. This is a dilemma, isn’t it?”
“We need a solution,” Catarina said. She looked at me slyly. “I suppose we’ll both have to fly her, won’t we?”
Hiro raised his eyebrows. I did the same.
She sketched the idea through. However awkward, what made sense was for her to start a manoeuvre and have me follow through just under the Scupper’s breaking point once I understood what she was trying to accomplish. It sounded stupid. It was also the best thing we could think of. While everybody else ate dinner, we modified the yoke that gives one pilot or the other control and then tried the system out.
It didn’t work. We spent the first twelve hours or so fumbling it good until we started to get each other’s rhythm. We ended up taking the arms off the command seats and moving them together until we were touching so I could feel what she was going to do without having to think about it.
I wouldn’t recommend it as a way to fly a warship, and I wouldn’t advise trying it with someone you don’t like.
We ran into a few unexpected glitches. Harry found out, with disagreeable consequences, that frictionless toilets don’t work the way they’re designed when the ship is rolling. That’s one of those things the navy doesn’t mention when they talk about hazardous duty pay, and it marked the first time in weeks that I saw McHugh smile.
We finally quit practising when Catarina and I were too tired to see straight, but it looked like Operation Rat Patrol was still on target. We turned the ship over to Clyde and Dykstra, went back to our cabin, and split a carton of Leopard Milk to celebrate.
“I’m too tired to sleep,” I told her. “You want to put something on the video?”
“Oh, I don’t know. All right.”
“I forgot to pick up new disks. Did you bring any?” I sorted through the selections.
“No, I was too busy. I asked Harry to find some. Why?”
“Well, what would you like to see?” I turned the monitor around so she could see what was new in the ship’s library. “Teenage Student Nuns from Hell, Mutant Vixens from Hell, or, best of all, Teenage Mutant Student Vixen Nuns from Hell?”
By unanimous vote, we settled for Humphrey and Ingrid, ably supported by Paul Henreid, Sydney Greenstreet, and Peter Lorre.
The next morning, we practised for about four hours and had Dinky, Harry, and Annalee practice launch simulations while the ship was manoeuvring. The ship only misbehaved twice, and Harry and McHugh never actually came to blows, so we chalked it up as a success.
Hiro had arranged for us to call Bunkie daily t
o follow events on Schuyler’s World, so while Spooner ran the ship, Catarina and I gave her a call.
“Hello, Bunkie. What’s going on?” Catarina asked.
“The newspaper articles about the invasion are beginning to sink in,” Bunkie’s image said primly. “Some of the people who quit the Civil Guard when it went union have come by and asked if they could help. I let them form themselves into a platoon and issued out about thirty rifles. Mayor Feldman is a little upset. He thinks that what I did was illegal and provocative, and he wants me to call the rifles back in. I told him that I’d have to ask Commander Hiro. I think he’s still a little mad at Ensign MacKay. You want me to ask for the rifles back?”
“No,” Catarina answered. “He can ask the police to recover them if he really wants them called in.”
“He’s already announced that he’s going to do that,” Bunkie said. “I can get you odds of seven to five against the police.”
“How’s the election going?” I asked.
“They’re still busy with the usual flurry of last-minute ballot-box stuffing,” Bunkie said, shrugging.
I got the impression that voting in Schenectady mostly depended on who had physical possession of the polling place. “Is the mayor’s administration beginning to take the invasion seriously?”
“I think so,” Bunkie said cautiously.
I said injudiciously, “Well, that’s good.”
“Well, maybe not that good, sir,” Bunkie said. “As soon as the polls closed, the mayor’s press agent announced that they were closing City Hall for renovation and that the city government would temporarily work out of the school gymnasium over in Possum Leap.”
“Possum Leap?” I asked.
“It’s a little place out a ways on the Hicksville Road, just inside the city limits,” Bunkie explained.
Catarina looked at me out of the corner of her eye with a crooked smile on her face.
“Come on, Bunkie, nobody on a planet like this would name a town Hicksville.” I searched for the proper way to express my thoughts. “It hits too close to home.”
“No, sir,” Bunkie insisted. “You’re wrong-there. A guy named Hicks—Tewfiq Hicks—was one of this planet’s founding fathers.” She thought for a minute. “There’s a Hicksville, a Hicksdale, and a Hicksburgh that I know of.”
“Oh,” I said, very quietly.
“Sir, would you like me to explain about the possum of Possum Leap?” Bunkie asked in that neutral tone of voice that navy other-ranks reserve for ensigns who don’t know what they’re talking about.
Catarina interceded. “No, thank you, Bunkie. Any other reactions to the invasion news?”
“A few things, ma’am,” Bunkie said impassively. “The souvenir shops raised their prices, and the Associated Civil Liberties Union held a press conference to announce that they were filing a lawsuit to have the war declared unconstitutional as a violative of the Rodents’ due-process rights. The editorials are split about fifty-fifty.”
Catarina nodded.
“Anything else newsworthy?” I asked.
Bunkie reflected for a moment. “The Society of Herpetologists wrote an open letter to seventeen religious denominations asking them to correct the unfair characterisation that serpents get in the Book of Genesis, but other than that, I can’t think of anything. How are things going up there, sir?”
“Well, Bunkie, I’m wondering if our squirrels can take their squirrels, if you know what I mean,” I said candidly.
“Good job, Bunkie. Keep us posted on what’s going on down there,” Catarina added briskly, signing us off.
We had twenty minutes before we were ready to get started again, so Catarina sent me back to see how Harry and Dinky were getting along in stores.
“Hi, how are we doing?” I asked incautiously as I stepped inside.
“Ready to waste those There, sir!” Harry stood to attention and saluted emphatically.
“Furs?” I asked politely, returning his salute. Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.
“No, sir! ‘Phers! That’s what we call ‘em,” Harry insisted.
I looked at Dinky, who made small placating gestures. “Which we?”
“You know, sir. Us fighting men.” Harry shrugged. “Well, me and Dinky, here.”
“Because they wear fur?” It occurred to me that Harry was taking this fighting-men stuff far too seriously.
“Naw. ‘Cause they’re Gophers, sir!” Harry said in disdain.
Dinky tossed in his half centime. “I thought you said it was because they were furry!”
Harry fixed him with a fierce look. “Well, it’s not!” He pulled out the pistol he was wearing—it was one of those big 12mm Osoros—and began fiddling with it.
My experience with pistols is that the accuracy drops off markedly if you’re not actually touching your target with the barrel, and that this is true of the 12mm Osoro, except more so. The Osoro has to be the weapon of choice for a shoot-out in a crowded elevator.
“Harry, could you please put the pistol away?” I asked.
Apparently having a sixth sense for this sort of thing, Catarina walked in the door, took in the situation at a glance, and laid her hand on Harry’s arm.
“Ah, it’s okay, Ken—I mean, sir,” he said abashed, holstering his weapon. “I’m just a little nervous.”
“That’s all right. We all are,” I told him. “We’d just prefer it if you didn’t flash pistols around on the ship.”
I saw Harry’s eyes go wide. “You’re not prejudiced against pistols, are you, sir?” he asked timidly, looking at me and Catarina.
“Oh, no. Of course not,” I said, following Catarina’s eyes.
“I just thought that calling them ‘Phers would help morale, sir.” He hung his head and started rubbing his toe against the deckplates.
“Harry,” I said before Catarina could get a word in, “if your morale improves any, we’re going to have to tie you down.” I slapped him on the shoulder.
Harry smiled sheepishly. “Sure, sir. And thanks, for everything.” He headed back up to his battle station in Number One hold.
“Tie him down?” Catarina pondered.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, if you say one word about rope, I’m going to hang myself,” I said, rubbing the sting out of my hand where I’d slapped Harry.
“Knot a word. Furthest string from my mind,” she assured me.
“Harry’s doctor was right. Acting out his fantasies like this is very therapeutic for him,” Dinky volunteered unexpectedly.
Catarina’s eyebrows came alive.
“What do you mean ‘his doctor’?” I asked.
“You know.” Dinky gestured ineffectually. “His psychiatrist.”
“Harry is seeing a psychiatrist?” I hoped I wasn’t hearing what I was hearing.
“I thought you knew.” Dinky thought for a minute. “Sir, if you were Harry, wouldn’t you be seeing a psychiatrist? When I saw some of the other people on board, I didn’t think anything of it.”
Catarina cleared her throat. “When you put it that way, I’d have to be the first to admit that not everyone connected with this operation is rated for a full charge.”
“Harry isn’t—dangerous or anything, is he?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Dinky volunteered. “The doctor just says that he’s subject to fits of depression. I think he was going to try gene therapy if this didn’t work. I’d better go up and help him get ready.”
As soon as Dinky left, I looked at Catarina. “Are wars always like this?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Now you know why we try and avoid having to call out the reserves.”
We spent another four hours practising, and Harry and Dinky actually improved. Encouraged by—or despite—McHugh’s waspish comments, they brought their simulated shooting average up close to the Mendoza line, which is a batting average of .200.
Improvement, of course, is a relative thing; and sitting next to Catarina shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip for four hours a
t a time was as good a way to improve my blood circulation as any.
When we were done for the day, we turned the ship back over to Rosalee and a mournful Clyde. While Catarina was using the shower, I went to find Bucky, who was billeted in Bernie Bobo’s old room. I rapped on his door. “Dr. Beaver, can we speak?”
“Certainly, friend Ken! Please, come in and be at home!” He was sitting on his bunk finishing off one of Chandrasekhar’s boxed vegetarian delights with more enthusiasm than was seemly.
I sat down at the desk and came straight to the point. “Look, Bucky, you really don’t need to be up here.” I searched for the proper words. “Friendship is friendship, but we are probably going to get killed up here. You are going to get yourself killed along with us to no purpose.”
“Friend Ken, friend Catarina and Commander Hiro have already discussed this with me. You don’t understand,” Bucky said sadly. All pretence of playacting dropped away from him. “My demi-brother Genghis is coming here to do his utmost to displace me as a threat to his accession. Although Papa does not realise this, he intends to kill me. If I am located on the planet, he will merely extend the scope of his activities to insure my demise. In accordance with the principles of Bucky, I wish to limit the involvement of unfortunate bystanders.”
“Oh, “I said.
He tugged his whiskers. “Except in matters of succession, we are not a fierce people by nature, friend Ken. Although my misguided demi-brother has imbibed some exceedingly unfortunate attributes from your culture, I truly believe that if I am aboard your ship, he will be satisfied with destroying it and will spare Schuyler’s World the ravages of war. As a last act of allegiance to my father, I wish to avoid any harm to the unfortunate beings on the planet below us. I fear that your navy would hold it against my people.” Then he spoiled it by quoting Bucky. “Duty should encompass practicality whenever circumstances permit.”
While I was trying to pry my foot out of my mouth, Catarina knocked on the door and asked to join us.
“Hello, Bucky. How is everything?” Catarina asked, seating herself cross-legged on the floor.
“Oh, most excellent. I was feasting on one of Mr. Chandrasekhar’s culinary masterpieces and engaging friend Ken in a discussion about silly political matters.” Bucky’s whiskers drooped, which gave him a wistful look. “I was just thinking that after the present unpleasantness resolves itself, friend Ken will be the captain of his own starship. How exciting! It seems so fortuitous for him.”
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