Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (18 page)

“Weird,” he said as Gants completed his negotiations. He'd traded a butane lighter for the necklace of some sort of purple shells with the luminousness of pearl.

“True tale,” Gants said, picking up one of the fruit and tossing the vendor a dime. “Back in the days when Africa was just starting to get explored, the traders would park their ship and set out some stuff on the shore. Steel hatchets, knives, stuff like that. The natives would come down, put some of their stuff out and move the piles around. A whole elephant tusk of pure ivory by ten knives or so. The traders would go out the next day and move stuff around again. Three knives by the tusk, say. That would go on until the piles didn't move, then everybody would collect their stuff and leave.”

“Slow way to get stuff,” Kulpa said. “I'd rather just swipe my ATM card.”

“Sure,” Gants said. “But then the traders would take back the tusk of ivory to London or Antwerp or wherever and get several thousand knives for it. Or the money equivalent, anyway. They made money hand over fist. That was worth waiting around in the tropical heat for.”

“Why didn't the natives just steal the stuff?” Kulpa asked as they stopped by a troop of Cheerick acrobats. Admittedly, the rotund rodentoids weren't a patch on the Cirque du Soleil, but they seemed really happy over the few quarters in their bucket.

“Oh, the guys on the ship would point a cannon at the clearing,” Gants said. “Just to keep everything honest. And if they went on shore and tried to steal all the native stuff, well, a spear from the jungle is a permanent souvenir. Trade's about contracts, in that case maintained by spears and cannons. Hasn't really changed, much. Just gotten faster and more complicated.”

“So, what do you think it's going to be like having these guys on the ship?” Kulpa asked as the Cheerick pyramid collapsed in a pile of squeals.

“Probably hardly see them,” Sub Dude replied. “Time's about up. Time to get back to work.”

Red looked up from the motor he was working on at a series of high-pitched squeals from down the corridor.

One of the Cheerick dragonfly pilots had turned the corner and come face to face with Tiny. The cat was in a play-pounce position and the Cheerick, even though he outweighed the cat by at least a factor of nine, clearly wasn't sure he wasn't the intended prey.

“Throw him a ball,” Red said, tossing same down the hall.

At the skittering sound behind him, the cat turned on his tail and launched through the air, overshooting the ball and spinning again. With another pounce he had the ball and ran it back to Red.

“Go ahead,” Red said, holding out the ball to the Cheerick.

The rodentoid came down the corridor and took the ball, sending it bounding down the corridor to bounce off a coaming. Tiny loved that since he had to turn in mid-run, leap off a bulkhead and catch the thing in the air. He ran it back to the giant rodentoid and dropped the ball, wiggling his butt in anticipation.

“Feel free,” Red said, turning back to his pump. “I'm kinda busy right now.”

“Ship status, XO?” Captail Prael asked.

“All personnel returned from shore leave,” Bill said. “All critical systems functioning. We're clear for take-off, sir.”

“Straightboard shut?” Prael asked.

“All hatches closed and locked,” the COB replied.

“Pilot, make course for HD . . . 242896,” the CO said after a moment's pause. “XO has the conn. XO, please call Miss Moon to my office.”

“Thank you for your assistance on Cheerick,” Prael said as Miriam entered his office. “Sit, please.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” Miriam said, sitting down.

“And now we don't have one for you until we potentially encounter another alien race,” the CO said. “And that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm aware that on your previous cruise you spent a goodly amount of your time working on maintenance. But the ship is working perfectly well. It's practically brand new, after all.”

“I was there when it was built,” Miriam said.

“And then there's the matter of the crew,” the CO said. “While the older crew is perfectly used to dealing with you, the others are from the sub service. For some very good psychological reasons, women have never been allowed in subs.”

“That is arguable,” Miriam said. “But I'll take it as a given for this discussion, since I can see where it's going.”

“There is a large and fully functional science wing in the ship,” the CO said. “And we're not carrying a science team. It is also directly connected to the wardroom and the officer's areas. I do not mind you interacting with the officers, however after much thought on yours and Captain Weaver's arguments to the contrary, I'm going to require that you stay out of the crew and Marine areas. If necessary, we will return to Earth to drop you off.”

“That won't be necessary,” Miriam said, standing up. “But I'm going to make a pronouncement, Captain. The day is going to come, and probably soon, when you are going to regret this conversation.”

“I'll live with that,” Prael said, gesturing at the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“Hey, Port-man,” Eric said, walking into the Wyvern Room.

In the Blade I the Wyverns had been housed between the remaining missile tubes of the converted sub. In the Blade II, a special room had been constructed. Still three stories high, it was easier to get the massive armor in and out of the room than it had been in Sherwood Forest, for which everyone was grateful. Lifts raised the armor up and down and in the central floor there were multiple airlocks for deployment. There also was a broad corridor to the underbelly ramp on the ship for ground deployments.

“Hang on!” Portana said, tossing a ball through the hatch. “Quick! Shut the hatch!” he added as a white streak went through Eric's legs.

Eric did as he was ordered, despite being an officer, and then looked at the armorer quizzically.

“What was that?” Berg asked.

“Tiny,” Portana replied, growling. “Damn t'ing.”

“Why is there a giant cat on the ship?” Eric asked. “And when we're alone it's okay to forget the 'sir,' Port-man, but . . .”

“Sorry, sir,” Portana said. “Somebody brought it on to catch those chee-hamsters you picked up the first trip. It mostly take up time playing fetch. An' I don' see no chee-hamster, ever.”

“They're nocturnal,” Eric said after a brief pause. “It's like cockroaches; they only come out when there's no light. So you'd only see them right after you turn on a light in a compartment. Glad to see we finally got something to keep them down. Now, I'm up for simulator training.”

“Got it licked, sir,” Portana said. “Runner's World. Been there . . .”

“Did that from the front, Port-man,” Eric said, accepting the mission-chip. “Now I got to learn how to manage the battlefield.”

“Come!” Bill shouted at the knock on the hatch.

“XO, we have an issue,” the Eng said.

“And that is?” Bill asked, not looking up from the consumption report. They were going to have to stop by a gas giant and pick up some water and pressurized O2 within the next five days . . . 

“Number Two air recycler just dropped offline,” the Eng said, swallowing. “Number One is down to eighty percent. If it drops below sixty percent efficiency, it will drop off, too.”

They were in deep space more than four days from the nearest known habitable planet, the air of which was only barely breathable. And even with one recycler at eighty percent, they'd be breathing soup in no more than a day.

“I sure hope you've figured out how to fix this thing by now, Chief,” Bill said, flexing his jaw. “Or we're all going to be breathing off spare O2 by tomorrow morning.”

“If you can tell me what a covalent shear screen is, sir, I can probably fix it,” the chief snapped, holding up the printed out manual for the Hexosehr system. “But since I've got no clue how it works, I'm having a hard time even figuring out what's wrong.”

“This, I think,” Red said, holding up what looked like a wire-mesh screen. Portions of it were a brilliant metal that reflected the overhead with shades of violet. But others were black and apparently covered with a tarry substance.

Three machinists had the failed recycler torn down and scattered across the deck, trying to figure out how to fix it while Red and Sub Dude were inside the guts up to their waists.

“I got more of that stuff,” Sub Dude said in a muffled tone from deep inside the device. “Do we have spare covalent shearing screens in parts?”

“Covalent . . .” the chief muttered, flipping through the book. “How do you spell that?”

“Polar corpuscle looks fried, too,” Ian said, holding up a metal piece that looked vaguely like a kidney. “What's going to fry that?”

“Look, we don't have time to figure this out,” Weaver said, grabbing his remaining hair. “Just pull the thing and put in the spare.”

“What spare?” the Eng asked.

“When we were having problems with it on Earth, I told the chief to pull that one and keep it around,” Bill said. “It was still working, it was just marginal. So where is it, Chief?”

“I had Red and Gants pull it,” the Chief said. “Red, where'd you store the spare recycler?”

“You told us to send it to depot maintenance, Chief,” Red said, back up to his waist in the recycler. “It's in Norfolk.”

“I told you to store it and work on it in your spare time,” Chief Gestner said.

The clinking from inside the machine stopped and then both machinists slid out as if teleported.

“You told us, Chief, to send it to depot maintenance,” Gants said, gritting his teeth. “Send it to depot. That is what you told us to do, Chief. We sent it to depot. It's in Norfolk. You didn't say anything about working on it in our spare time. You said send it to depot.”

“I don't like your tone, Machinist,” Chief Gestner snapped. “You will jack it up!”

“I don't like yours, Chief,” Bill snarled. “I gave you a direct order which you, in turn, failed to ensure was carried out! So trying to shift the blame to a couple of petty officers is . . . Petty beyond belief!”

“Whoa,” the Eng said, holding up his hands. “What we definitely don't have time for is to get into a he said/he said! The point is, we do not, in fact, have a spare onboard. Is that correct, Chief Gestner?”

“Yes, sir,” the chief said, glaring at the XO. Unable to take out his fury on the officer he rounded on the machinists. “You two, back to work.”

Gants gave him one more fulminating look then slid back into the depths of the alien machinery.

“Then we need to get this one working,” Weaver said. “And we then need to pull the other one down and get it working. And if you cannot figure out how to spell 'covalent,' Chief Petty Officer, you had better damned well learn. I'll sell you a clue: It starts with a C, just like coc . . . Chief!”

“Eng,” Weaver said as they left the compartment. “I want it reflected on the chief's evaluation report that he was given an order to maintain a critical component and whether there was a damned miscommunication or not, it was his responsibility to ensure that order was carried out.”

“I don't think this is the time to be bringing that up, sir,” the Eng said. “When we're past the crisis we can determine the mistakes that were made. I'll remind you, sir, that as the person responsible for all aspects of this ship, it reflects poorly upon your own actions that you did not ensure that that order was fulfilled. I, for example, who is responsible for all the engineering aspects of the ship, was unaware of it, sir. Because you dealt with the situation directly, rather than working through the department heads. That is what we're here for, sir, to ensure that all orders are carried out.”

“Duly noted, Eng,” Weaver said, grimacing. “But that order was given and it was not carried out. And I want that to be reflected in his evaluation report.”

“Also duly noted, XO,” the Eng said. “But on the subject of us running out of air, sir? I would entertain suggestions from my superior in this matter, sir. Because while I can spell covalent, I, too, have no grapping clue what a covalent shearing screen does.”

“Grapp, grapp, grapp . . .” Gants muttered.

“He's gone,” Red said from outside the device. “The behanchod.”

“I was actually talking about this grapping Hexosehr piece of maulk,” Gants said, grunting then yelping. “Grapp! Work, you Hexosehr piece of maulk!” he shouted, banging on something in the depths of the machine.

“It's not going to work with its guts spread all over,” Red said, looking at the system inventory. “Damnit, we don't have any shearing screens! They're listed as a capital item! They're not supposed to break down, apparently.”

“Well, they sure as shit have,” Gants said, sliding out another piece of machinery. “And will you look at that?”

“What is it?” Red asked, picking up what looked like a painting canvas. Like the shearing screen, it was covered in a black tarry substance and holes had apparently been eaten in it in spots. Unless it was supposed to look like chemical moths had been at it.

“I have no grapping clue,” Gants said. “But I'm pretty sure it's important.”

“We are so grapped,” Red said, slumping back against the recycler. “We have no grapping clue what any of this maulk is or how to fix it. How could we go into space not knowing how any of this maulk worked? Were we grapping nuts?”

“It's Hexosehr stuff,” Gants said, sliding back out and sitting up. “It's magic. It's supposed to work like magic. Magic doesn't break.”

“Well, if we're not all going to die of asphyxiation, we'd better figure out how to fix magic,” Red said.

“And who is the most magical person on this ship?”

“It breaks the covalent bonds in ketones and esters,” Miriam said, not looking up from rubbing Tiny on the stomach. The linguist looked terrible. Her skin was gray, hair was frumpy, her tone listless and her eyes bloodshot. She was also wearing glasses, which Gants had only seen a couple of times in all the time he'd known her. “That breaks them down to CO2, nitrogen, oxygen and water. When the covalent shearing screen broke down, you started to get organic acids which ripped up the carbon cracker, that thing that looks like a painting canvas. That breaks CO2 and carbon monoxide down into carbon and oxygen then transports the carbon to a holding compartment. You did check the carbon holding compartment, right?”