Hex (6 page)

“I agree.” Andromeda Carson nodded. “We have time for a quick inspection.” She gestured to a large, red-bearded man wearing the insignia of a chief petty officer. “Zeus... please take their gear and put it beneath their seats.”

Sean surrendered his bag to the crewman she'd called Zeus, as did Mark; then they turned to walk across the apron to the shuttle. Several ground crewmen were standing beneath the belly hatch; they waited while the two Corpsmen approached them. Mark glanced over his shoulder, then looked at Sean.

“So... want to tell me what's going on?” he whispered. “With your mother, I mean.”

“Not really.”

“C'mon, man. Don't make me give you an order.” Mark was Sean's superior officer, but the two of them seldom observed the difference in status. They'd joined the Corps at the same time and gone through training together, with both qualifying for Special Survey, and it was only because Mark had scored a few points better on their final field test that he'd been made sergeant instead of Sean. They were friends first and foremost, though, and only rarely did Mark pull rank on his buddy. But this was one of those times. “Do you have a problem working with her that I should know about?”

Sean hesitated. “Look, it's not something I really like to talk about. Can I just say that we don't get along and leave it at that?”

By then, they'd reached the shuttle. Looking up at it, Sean read its name, stenciled across the port fuselage beneath the cockpit windows next to the Coyote Federation flag. Something else had once been there, and Sean vaguely recalled that it was the name of some Central American socialist or another. But that name, along with the Western Hemisphere Union flag, had long since been painted over, with a new one in its place:
Gilbert Reese
, after the United Republic of America colonel who'd been one of the original
Alabama
colonists, if Sean wasn't mistaken.

“You're going to be flying this thing, aren't you?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

A quick smile from Mark. “If I'm lucky and someone else doesn't beat me to it.” He knelt to look at the tandem-mounted wheels of its forward landing gear, then stood up again. “I'm not trying to pry into your private life,” he went on, speaking quietly. “I just need to know that if she gives you an order, you're going to follow it.”

Ducking his head, Sean stepped beneath the lowered left-side door of the belly hatch and peered up into the cargo bay. Suspended from a trapeze within the bay was the expedition gyro; with an aft-mounted pusher-prop, winglike stabilizers, and a main prop whose four blades were neatly folded together above the narrow canopy of its cockpit, the small aircraft was just large enough to seat a pilot and four passengers. Even so, they'd practically be sitting in each other's lap.

“If she gives me an order, I'll follow it,” Sean said, reaching high above his head to grab hold of the gyro's starboard skid. He shoved at it, and was satisfied to see that it barely moved; the trapeze would keep the gyro from banging around during launch and landing. “Just don't expect me to have tea with her.”
Not that tea is what she usually drinks,
he silently added.

Sean and Mark took another minute to make sure the aluminum cases containing the rest of their gear had been loaded aboard the
Reese
, then they left the lander and trotted back to the shuttle. By then, everyone else had gone aboard, and the aft pods of the spacecraft's
hjadd
-made reactionless drive were already glowing. The ground crew held the ladder while Sean and Mark climbed aboard, then they wheeled it away, leaving it to Sean to close the hatch and dog it tight.

The rear compartment was cramped; the shuttle was meant only for ground-to-orbit sorties, with passenger comfort a lesser priority. Mark had already found a seat, so there was only one left; Sean was relieved to find that it wasn't next to his mother, who'd gone forward to join Melpomene in the cockpit. On the other hand, Zeus had decided to take the seat next to Kyra, which meant that Sean found himself having to sit with Cayce.

“Everything all right?” the lieutenant asked, as Sean pulled his harness straps around his shoulders and waist.

“Yes, sir.” Sean clicked shut the six-point buckle and made sure the straps were tight. “Loaded and locked down.”

Cayce nodded. There was a mild jar as a tractor attached itself to the shuttle's forward landing gear and began to tow the spacecraft out to the launchpad. Cayce gazed out the starboard window beside them, and for a few moments, Sean was able to hope that the team leader would leave him alone. But it was too much luck to count on because the tractor had just detached itself from the shuttle and moved away when Cayce turned to him again.

“That was a rather cold reception you gave your mother.” His voice was none too quiet; on the other side of the aisle, two other
Montero
crewmen—the name patches on their jumpsuits read R. KURTZ and j. RESSLER—turned their heads slightly as if to listen in. “I hope this isn't going to be a problem.”

“It won't be.” Sean glared at Kurtz and Ressler until they looked away again, then he turned back to Cayce. “And forgive me for saying so,” he murmured, “but how I get along with my mother is no one's business but mine . . . sir.”

Cayce scowled at him, and for a couple of moments, Sean thought he was going to have a quarrel with his CO. Which was fine with him. He was willing to respect the lieutenant's position as team leader; despite his shortcomings, Sean also had found a few things to admire about Amerigo Cayce in the eight months they'd worked together. Yet there were times when Cayce could be overbearing; unlike Mark, he wasn't hesitant about pulling rank. There was nothing in Corps regulations that said Sean couldn't argue with a superior officer, though, and Cayce had already learned that Corporal Carson was willing to take him on.

“Very well, then.” Cayce dropped his voice a little. “I'll let you two work it out on your own . . . so long as it doesn't get in the way of our mission.”

Sean was about to reply when, as if on cue, his mother's voice came over the ceiling speaker:
“All hands, stand by . . . Launch in ten seconds.”

That ended the conversation, much to Sean's relief. Grasping the armrests with both hands, he lay back against the heavily padded seat, forcing himself to relax as much as possible. This wasn't the first time he'd been aboard a spacecraft; nonetheless, he still had to ignore the skeeters in his stomach whenever he went into orbit.

A low, hollow moan from the engines' pods rose gradually to a high-pitched whine, then there was a slight jar as the shuttle lifted off from the pad. There was no exhaust plume as it ascended to five hundred feet upon its negmass thrusters, then the nose tilted upward, and, with very little noise, the shuttle leapt toward the sky. Careful not to turn his head toward the window, lest the mounting g-force cause his neck to suffer whiplash, Sean watched from the corner of his eye as the sky gradually faded from blue to purple to jet-black. A green and brown horizon, gently curved and crisscrossed by the blue veins of rivers and channels, swept into view; moments later, the vast bulk of 47 Ursae Majoris-B appeared beyond Coyote, the silver sword of its ring plane lancing straight out into space.

They were on their way.

T
WO AND A HALF HOURS AFTER THE SHUTTLE LIFTED OFF from New Brighton, it rendezvoused with the
Montero
. From the copilot's seat, Andromeda Carson watched as Melpomene Fisk deftly manipulated the control yoke. Melpomene had been
Montero
's helmsman ever since its original pilot retired and Andromeda was forced to recruit a replacement; Fisk had demonstrated her ability to fly anything that could leave the ground, including spacecraft retrofitted with reactionless drives. All the same, Andromeda quietly made sure that the shuttle was on course before allowing herself the luxury of gazing out the cockpit windows.

Even half-hidden within its orbital dry dock, the CFSS
Carlos Montero
was magnificent. Three hundred feet long, with a dry weight of nine thousand tons, it was a long, fat cylinder that gradually tapered at its midsection to a slighter smaller service module from which the nacelles of its four gas-core nuclear engines were mounted on outriggers. At the bow was the broad dish of its deflector array; just aft of the crew module were the maneuvering thrusters. Lights gleamed from portholes along the hull; as the shuttle came closer, Andromeda could see that the lander bay was already open in preparation for
Reese
's arrival.

If any spacecraft could be called a tall ship, then the
Montero
met the definition for such an antiquated term. The ship was old, even obsolete by some measures; indeed, it was a starship in name only since it had been originally designed for travel within Earth's solar system and had made its first starbridge jump only after it had been refitted with a hyperspace-rated AI. Yet even after all these years, Andromeda hadn't become jaded to the sight of her vessel. It was one of the few pleasures she still derived from being a captain.

“Shuttle Romeo Navajo Six-Two to Dry Dock Alpha Six, requesting clearance for final approach and docking.” Melpomene listened to her headset for a few moments. “Thank you, Alpha Six, we copy. Over.” She glanced at Andromeda. “Port hatch, skipper? Or do you want me to use the bay?”

“Port hatch, please.” Andromeda knew that the
Reese
was scheduled for launch a half hour after the shuttle's departure, and she didn't want the bay to still be occupied by the shuttle when the
Reese
arrived. Regulations mandated that a starship's landing craft should be flown to orbit by a harbor pilot; the rule was a nuisance, and she suspected that it had been put in effect mainly to provide employment for spacers who otherwise wouldn't have jobs. At least it meant that her crew would all board the ship at the same time; only two or three dockworkers were presently aboard the
Montero
, and they'd leave as soon as the captain and crew came aboard.

Andromeda stole a glance through the cockpit door. She'd hoped that her people would use the time to acquaint themselves with the Corps of Exploration team, but it appeared that only her chief petty officer, Zeus Brandt, had made the effort to do so, and probably because the Corpsman he'd chosen to sit next to was young, female, and good-looking; Andromeda hoped that Melpomene wouldn't notice her boyfriend's flirtation with another woman. Jason Ressler, her first officer, ignored the two Corpsmen sitting across the aisle from him. Rolf Kurtz, the chief engineer, and Anne Smith, the communications officer, were seated side by side, neither of them speaking to Lieutenant Cayce or Sean even though they were within arm's reach.

Andromeda looked away. On one hand, she couldn't blame her crew for being a little standoffish. They'd been on shore leave for the past six weeks, and most of them had spent the ground time with their families; Mel and Zeus were the only crewmen who didn't have spouses, and from what Andromeda had heard, Zeus made up for it with a long list of girlfriends, his relationship with Mel notwithstanding. The new mission had brought an abrupt end to their vacations; so as far as they were concerned, the Corps team was little more than a group of unwanted passengers.

Perhaps that would change once the ship was under way. It would take the
Montero
twelve hours to reach Starbridge Coyote and its gatehouse; in the meantime, she could call for a general meeting. No, even better... lunch in the wardroom. Much more informal. She'd made sure that the galley was stocked with a few gallons of wine; maybe that would be a good time to break out a bottle or two. Regulations prohibited the flight crew from drinking while on duty, but she was the captain, after all, and she could bend the rules a little if she...

Oh hell, woman,
she thought,
admit it. You don't care about making friends with any of these people. You're just trying to find a way to talk to Sean, maybe make peace with him.
She winced.
Yeah, right. Fat chance...

“Skipper?” Melpomene's voice interrupted her thoughts. “Coming in on final approach. Alpha Seven Control on Channel Two for you.”

Andromeda snapped herself back to awareness. Through the windows, she could see that Melpomene had maneuvered the shuttle toward the dry dock's open forward end and was slowly guiding the small craft toward
Montero
's port side. She tapped her headset mike. “
Montero
CO to Alpha Seven Control. Request permission for rendezvous and docking.”

“Roger that,
Montero
CO.”
The male voice on the other end of the comlink sounded bored.
“Welcome back. Dock crew standing by to hand over the ship.”

“We copy, Alpha Seven, thank you.
Montero
CO over.” Andromeda muted her mike again. A needless formality, but it could be worse. When she'd been with the Union Astronautica, and her vessel was named after a long-dead Cuban president, she would've had to endure a final meeting with a Patriarch before being allowed to board her own ship. The traditions of Coyote's merchant marine were much less demanding.

Melpomene performed a 180-degree roll to align the shuttle's port hatch with
Montero
's, then coaxed the craft the rest of the way in, carefully maneuvering past the dry dock's mooring cables. The hull gradually grew larger until there was a dull
clang
as the shuttle docking collar telescoped forward to mate with the
Montero
. Melpomene reached up to flip a couple of switches, and there was a soft hiss as the shuttle's internal atmosphere depressurized slightly. “Docking complete, Captain,” she said.