Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (15 page)

“The CO's still not real happy with me helping you guys out,” Miriam continued, ignoring the jibes. “And I got really bored on the last cruise. Worse, I had nobody to snuggle.”

“You're not snuggling me or Red,” Gants said, sucking his teeth. “Married. Damnit.”

“So I need something to snuggle,” Miriam continued, ignoring him again. “And the ship really needs a mascot.”

“Oh, God,” Red said. “This is getting worse and worse!”

“All I'm talking about is one little kitty,” Miriam said. “It will take up hardly any room. Nobody will notice. Probably.”

“And just what is this kitty going to eat?” Red asked. “We don't stock cat food.”

“He eats raw meat just fine,” Miriam said. “Don't worry, I got that covered. With my access, tweaking the supply orders was easy.”

“Oh, God,” Red said. “You hacked the supply system?”

“Duh.”

“Okay, how are you going to get it on the ship, Smart Lady?” Sub Dude asked.

“All hands! All hands! Assemble by Hatch Three for working party!”

“I dunno,” Miriam said. “Maybe in a Hexosehr cargo box I just happen to have and that looks just like the rest we're getting ready to load.”

“Damnit.”

“PO, is it just me or are we loading a lot of provisions?” the mess specialist asked, heaving a leg of beef onto a large stack in the freezer.

“Stuffing every nook and cranny,” the petty officer replied. “Going to be a long cruise.”

“Yeah, but, this is one heck of a lot of meat,” the mess specialist said. “I mean, more than normal, right?”

“Looks about right to me,” the PO replied. “This is the Blade . . .”

“We don't turn back until we're out of food or Marines,” the mess specialist said, sighing. “I guess we're going to be making a lot of chilimac.”

“We got it all back,” Bill chortled. “All of it. Every last item!”

“That's great, Bill,” Miriam said, looking around at the piles of boxes. “Now all we have to do is figure out where it all goes, again.”

“No problem,” Bill said. “I just want to get it all back in the ship. Then we can figure out where it's going. I can see you're just as glad as I am, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Admit it.”

“You're right,” Miriam said, trying not to glance over at where Red and Sub Dude were joining the line of sailors loading the ship. “But I've got stuff I've got to do. See you later?”

“Absolutely,” Bill replied. “And did I mention we got it all back?”

“I thought you said this was a cat,” Sub Dude whispered as they broke away from the group and headed aft.

“It's sort of purring like one,” Red pointed out. “Sort of.”

“It's way too heavy to be a cat,” Gants said, sucking his teeth furiously. “Unless you brought a menagerie.”

“Just one little kitty,” Miriam promised. “Is this far enough? I miss my Tiny.”

“Over here,” Red whispered, opening up one of the between-launcher supply closets.

The threesome entered the compartment, shut the hatch and then Gants hit the lock on the box.

“What kind of a cat—?” he started to say and then found himself flat on his back in the face of a joyous “MRAOWR!”

The beast on his chest was the size of a medium dog and weighed about the same. But that was where the resemblance ended. Snow white with black spots and blue eyes, the thing looked like an albino jaguar. And it had the power of one, having knocked him off his feet before he could get a sentence out or even scream. If it was a house cat, it looked like it must have been crossed with a leopard. It began licking his face like a dog, but with a vocalization that could best be replicated as “YUM! YUM! YUM!” It was not a reassuring sound.

“Can I push it off? Or is it going to rip my throat out?”

“Oh, Tiny's a big softie,” Miriam said, pushing the cat aside.

“Is that some sort of bizarre genetic accident?” Red asked. He'd backed into the corner of the room since the cat was between him and the door. He was afraid to try to run in case it caused a chase reaction in the massive feline. “I saw this picture online one time . . .”

“It's a Savannah,” Miriam said. “A cross between a Bengal and a Cervil. And his name is Titanus, after the lord of the Titans. I like to call him Tiny.”

“Look,” Gants said, scrambling to his feet and backing to the door. “I don't know anything about any cat. We were not here. We disavow all knowledge of how a fricking monster catzilla got on the ship. My God, woman, where is he going to go to the bathroom? We don't happen to have the Sahara onboard!”

“Where does a sixty pound cross between a housecat and a mountain lion go?” Red mused. “Anywhere it wants. I'm thinking . . . Conn.”

“He's potty trained,” Miriam said with a moue. She knelt and grabbed the massive cat by the head, scratching it hard at the neckline. At which point, “Tiny” rolled onto the deck and onto his back to have his tummy rubbed. That required two hands for sure. “He goes in the potty. I wouldn't want to change his catbox.”

“Like, in the can?” Red asked, straightening out of his crouch. “Really?”

“Oh, sure, that I've heard of,” Gants said, sucking his teeth nervously. “But is he trained on a potty for a prototype, Hexosehr-built, spaceship Miss Smartypants?”

“Well, duh.”

“So it just eats raw meat?” Red said, holding out a slice of beef. It turned out that Miriam had doubled the meat ration of the ship. Normally, that would be impossible, but for some reason the ship had about double the regular freezer space. He had to wonder, given that Miriam had been involved in the design, just how long the girl had been planning on bringing her “little kitty.”

“And organ meat,” Miriam said.

“Okay, who in the hell ordered two tons of calf liver . . . ?”

“Oh, man, liver and onions, here we come . . .”

“You've pretty much got it licked, don't you?” Gants said, sighing.

“Thought of everything,” Miriam said. “Trust me.”

“Is this one of those times that as a good Marine wife I trust you that you were not carousing all night?” Brooke asked as Eric opened the door to the apartment. She was folding laundry in the living room with the TV set to Fox News.

“Yes,” Eric said. “The first sergeant and the CO decided that everybody was getting too into their new roles as TV stars. So we had a ruck march.”

“All night?” Brooke asked, alarmed.

“Yep,” Berg said. “I caught breakfast at the mess hall and that was the first solid food I've had since yesterday sometime. The good news is that I've got the whole day off. I need to be back at 1700.”

“That's . . . five o'clock, right?” Brooke asked. “Do you want me to get you something to eat? I would have fixed breakfast. I'm sorry I snapped.”

“That was not a snap,” Eric corrected. “A snap would have been 'where the hell were you last night?' And I'm fine. I need a shower. After that I'm sure we'll find some way to pass the time. Especially since lift-off is about this time tomorrow morning.”

“Power for five knots,” the CO said as the tugs released the lines on the ship.

Since its existence was supposed to be a huge secret, the Blade
II had been docked in a standard subpen. Which meant a massive concrete box with overhead cover. Just flying out was out of the question. Arguably, she could have driven herself out, as she had done on previous occasions. But the tugs were standard and with the secrecy off, no longer an issue.

What was an issue was their sailing orders.

“Twenty degrees starboard,” Prael said, gritting his teeth. The deep water where subs hid was to port. The main basin for Newport News was to starboard, the basin where the thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of watchers had gathered to watch the world's first starship take off. “Let's kick it up a bit.”

“Twenty degrees starboard,” Weaver repeated. “Engage drive to one percent. Maintain water contact.”

There was already a supplemental provision bill before Congress for a new spaceport, a real one that didn't involve water. But it was still based at Newport News. The Navy had slid the entire plan across the table and, as far as anyone could tell, they were for once getting everything they asked for. Riding a tide of public opinion was a wonderful feeling.

“Why do I get the feeling that everybody wants us to burst out of the water?” the CO said. “Input, XO?”

“One option, sir,” Bill replied. “Alternatively, rising ominously into the air, passing slowly over News and Norfolk then out to sea. Then kick it in to get out of the grav well faster. I really don't think we want to go supersonic at low altitude near a city. There are regs against it for that matter. And we can only go so far nose up without everyone falling sideways. We'll have the depth in the turning basin for a slight dip.”

“I think we should go for the splashy exit,” Prael replied. “People have gotten used to seeing it on TV, haven't they? Once we reach the turning basin, go to twenty meters, then we'll bounce out at about forty knots and accelerate to just under Mach One. Not as flashy as Spectre's runs, I'll admit, but we don't have Akulas to avoid.”

Brooke watched as the ship carrying her husband first dipped into the harbor then splashed out, heading upwards and outwards towards the stars. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she wasn't the only teary-eyedone in the crowd by far.

“Calm down, Tiny,” Miriam said, rubbing the cat's sides. “It's shiny. It's better than with Spectre.”

It was a note of pure cat distress as the massive feline squatted on his haunches and howled at the overhead. But deeper and richer than any housecat. When it passed through a thick hatch and echoed through the ship . . . 

“Captain Weaver?” Prael asked.

“Not . . . sure, sir,” Bill replied, listening to the sound of bending metal that resounded through the hull. “But it sounded expensive.”

“We need to know if we're spaceworthy, XO,” the CO snapped. “Pilot, level off and drop the accel.” As the ship leveled out the sound subsided. “Damage report.”

“Pressure is holding at two percent over standard atmosphere,” Bill replied. “No reports of structural damage. Sir, we've never heard that particular sound from the ship. Yes, it sounded bad. But it might have just been things settling. The inertial compensators don't kick in until we're out of the grav well and coming back we didn't maneuver very hard. My gut is saying bad things. Every sensor we have, every person we have on watch, is saying everything's shiny.”

“I want the source of that transient tracked down,” the CO said, nodding. “But if we're spaceworthy, then we're spaceworthy. Pilot, kick it back in.”

As the acceleration climbed and the ship pointed upwards, the sound started up again.

“COB, track down the source of that sound,” the CO said. “Find out what's broken in my ship.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief of boat replied.

“Reaching exoatmospheric,” Bill said as the feel of being pointed up fell off and the deck was once more “down.” The artificial gravity created by the ancient artifact was just slightly under Earth's gravity. It was so slight a difference, most people didn't notice. It just made for a feeling of lightness. It kicked in automatically as the ship left Earth's gravity well.

“Pressure check,” the CO said as the noise subsided. “I really want to know what that sound is.”

“Pressure is nominal,” Weaver replied as everyone's ears popped. The air was overpressured for the check then slowly reduced to a high oxygen content but low pressure. “We're not leaking, whatever it is.”

“Very well,” the CO said. “Astro?”

“One-Six-Eight mark neg Nine, sir,” Lieutenant Fey said. “Course for Cheerick to pick up our dragonflies and their riders.”

“It's times like this I really think I've stepped into wonderland,” Prael said distastefully. “Pilot, course laid in?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the pilot replied. The recently promoted petty officer was a survivor of every battle the Blade had been in and lived to have his hands on the control of the ship. “Second star to the right and straight on to morning.”

“Just engage,” Prael said with a sigh.

“How's it going, Two-Gun?” Captain Zanella asked.

The Marines were settling into place, but Eric was already done so he'd headed for the Admin office in the ship and settled down to catch up on paperwork again.

“Just fine, sir,” Eric said, not looking up. “Bit strange to have a cabin, even if I am sharing it with Lieutenant Morris.”

“Well, here's your course load and your homework schedule,” the CO said, handing over an SD chip. “I got a buddy who's an instructor at FROT to send me all his stuff and a syllabus. The OBC portion is open-source. The syllabus has us doing two hour blocks a day. And since they're both multi-week courses and we've got just this cruise to cover them, I'll be taking it pretty fast. And I won't be able to do all of it, so the XO is going to be doing some of the courses. Then there's the simulator portion. FROT now uses the actions on Runner's World and Cheerick as part of their exercises so you get to replay them as an officer. Comments?”

“What fun,” Berg said, trying not to sigh. He'd slipped the chip into his computer and scanned the course load while the CO was talking. It looked like a couple of semesters in college to him. “I mean, aye, aye, sir.”

“That's the spirit,” the CO said, grinning. “If you want to blame somebody, blame the President.”

“He gets blamed for enough, sir,” Eric replied. “When do we start?”

“Fourteen hundred. You need to read the first portion by then so you're prepared.”

That was barely three hours away. Berg looked at the mass of paperwork he had to catch up on and the courses he had to take and mentally kissed sleep goodbye.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Bill whistled to himself quietly as he went off watch. He knew he'd have to be back up in a couple of hours, given that he was going to be busy when they got to Cheerick working on arranging the dragonfly fighters they were picking up. Not to mention integrating the Cheerick riders. But being XO had some privileges. When he'd done previous cruises he'd been bunked with three other officers. This time, he had his own . . .