Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (23 page)

“I'd already thought of that,” Berg said. “Ever use a flight simulator program?”

“No,” Miriam admitted.

“Well, when you push the stick, you're thinking where you want the plane to go,” Berg said. “Sometimes, when you don't understand what you're doing, you're just really, really wishing. Especially just before a crash. But the thought is there. I don't see why it would affect the interaction with the dragonflies. Of course, the guys are going to end up trying to use a stick when they're flying the dragonflies. But that shouldn't be a problem. Heck, maybe mount one for them so they have something to hold onto . . .”

“Are we sure this is going to work?” Colonel Che-chee asked. “Even a Mother must consider face, as you humans would put it.”

The Cheerick pilot ready-room was set up much like any ready-room in history, a series of auditorium-style chairs with a dais at the front, a podium and a massive plasma-screen monitor. The major difference was that the chairs were oversized for a human. They were even oversized for a Cheeirck; they had been designed to take pilots wearing their suits.

“It should work fine,” Miriam said. The colonel was in the front row and the diminutive linguist was up on the dais, punching in the scenario. “Just remember to use the joysticks I installed in your suits. Otherwise the computer doesn't know where you're trying to go. I've set this up for a very simple movement. We'll take it nice and slow . . .”

“. . . Okay, now that I've disconnected the arm controls on the suits for training, this should work perfectly. And I'm sure we can get Crak-chee's arm reconnected in no-time. I'm not so sure about the damage to the chair . . .”

Colonel Che-chee was panting inside her suit and the thing was filling with shed. The furry Cheerick shed massively, especially when stressed and she was very stressed. Flying a dragonfly was a matter of thinking where you were going. They had been working hard enough that control of the “joysticks” had become second nature, but she still wished she could simply think the maneuvers. There was also the fact that the Cheerick were not naturally a hunting species. They had derived from omnivores, true, but omnivores that got most of their meat from carrion and very small game. They did not have the natural chase reaction that even humans posessed. And whereas in humans, following an icon with the eyes was so automatic as to be hard-wired, indeed hard to ignore, the Cheerick had to concentrate on it.

But not only was she following the damned dancing karat, she could spare enough time to check her . . . “monitors” and her riders were staying in perfect sync. They were flying as if they were crack cavalry on boards, which was where she'd drawn them from. Finally, it was coming together.

“Cease exercise,” the human linguist said in perfect Cheerick. “Colonel, that was very nearly flawless.”

“Very nearly flawless and flawless are two entirely different things,” Colonel Che-chee said to squeaks of dismay over the open frequency. “Attend me, males! You dishonor your family names by your male whining. We will do this until we are perfect or I will return you to your families branded as failures! Miss Moon, please set the exercise up again. We continue . . .”

The Dreen fighter was banking back and forth for all it was worth but Colonel Cheerick almost had it locked. Finally, it crossed her firing path and she willed the laser to flash out and destroy it, unthinkingly pressing the firing button at the same time.

The seedlike fighter belched air and water and lost power then erupted in flame.

“Team One come to one-one-four mark neg nineteen,” a robotic voice chimed. “Bandits at one-one-three mark neg seventeen.”

“Ka-che, you will stay on my tail this time,” the colonel snarled. “If I look back and you are not in position again, you will . . .  You will clean the head for a week.” Normally, she'd have had him shovel out the stables. Coming up with an alternative was tough. There was nothing like shoveling the stables to center a cavalryman's attention.

“Yes, Colonel,” the wingman replied.

The colonel had automatically followed the icon while delivering her threat and even anticipated it, the vector coming unthinking to her after having spent so many hours in these “simulators” her quarters had almost become a distant memory. But she was coming to enjoy the game, especially now that the linguist had thrown in enemies to fight. The Cheerick were not natural predators, but the instinct of battle came easily to them. Males battled over females, females battled for territory. Battle was battle.

“Dreen fighter at two-two-seven mark nine,” Ka-che said. “Closing on my tail.”

“Flight nine,” Colonel Che-chee said. “Bandit seven.”

“On it,” the other flight called, closing the Dreen fighter which had locked onto her wingman. “Target destroyed.”

“Well done, Nine,” Colonel Che-chee said. “Target locked . . . firing . . .”

“Okay,” Captain Prael said, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers behind his head. “Let's try this again. But unless we just sit in place for a week and train these guys, I don't see where those dragonflies are going to be any use except strapped to the hull to give us a shield.”

“We can always hope, sir,” the TACO said.

“Colonel Che-chee,” the CO said, pressing the comm button. “Let's take this slow. Entering maneuver Delta-One. Engage.”

“Holy maulk,” White said as the ten dragonflies followed the projected path as if they were drawing it. At the completion of the maneuver, though, they broke up, seemingly randomly. Then, as the tracks of the dragonflies scrolled across the screen it was apparent they were performing a complex maneuver, first forming a diamond then a square then a circle and finally a snowflake pattern.

“Is that a bit better, Captain?” Colonel Che-chee said.

“Much,” Captain Prael said. “I'd say you'd been practicing, but I know you haven't been EVA since our last stop.”

“There are things called simulators, you know, Captain,” the colonel replied, sweetly.

Prael blinked in surprise for a moment, first locking onto the fact that there were, as far as he knew, no simulators for dragonfly combat on the ship and then on the fact that the Cheerick knew what a simulator was.

“We can't simulate the mental process,” the CO said, frowning. “The interface . . .”

“If you use a joystick, you are thinking where you want to go, Captain,” Colonel Che-chee interjected. “It wasn't even that hard to create. The suits work perfectly well as simulators with some minor modifications.”

“And who did the . . . ?”

“Miss Moon was kind enough to do it for us, Captain,” Colonel Che-chee said. “As well as set up the . . . network and simulations. She is a most remarkable human. But, of course, she is female.”

“I'll keep that in mind, Colonel,” the CO said, his face tight. “Now, since you've clearly been practicing, let's work up to some harder maneuvers . . .”

The dragonflies shifted through complex patterns, overlapping their shields against simulated Dreen fire. As each shield became weakened, a recharged dragonfly would interpose, moving the weakened one back in a pattern the Roman Legions would recognize. From time to time they would open up like a flower as the side of the ship burst out in simulated chaos fire, then close to cover the vulnerable side of the ship. All the while they stayed inside the small space that separated the hull and the edge of the warp field, even maintaining position when the ship exited warp to fire.

“And . . . complete simulation,” Captain Prael said. “Whew, even I'm sweating after that one. Good job, Dragonflight. Simulation says barely three percent of the Dreen fire got through. You just saved a bunch of lives on the ship.”

“But we're barely shedding, Captain,” Colonel Che-chee said. “Is that all you've got?”

“Unfortunately, we're done chilling, Colonel,” the CO said, trying not to grin. He had to constantly remind himself that the Cheerick Mother had first gone to war before he was born. “Time to come back to the barn.”

“Well, I suppose we can always go back to the simulators,” Colonel Che-chee replied. “Back to the barn it is.”

“Colonel,” Prael said, nodding. “I intend to keep drilling with your people but you've done one hell of a job. I'm truly impressed.”

“We would not have been able to do as well if it had not been for the simulators,” the colonel said, sipping a fruit drink. “Captain, I do not want to interfere in the running of your ship, but . . .”

“But,” the CO said, grinning in a rictus. “You're going to.”

“No, I'm going to simply tell you a story,” the Colonel said. “Once upon a time there was a young officer who was very sure of herself and her place in the world. She had been an officer for some time and knew the ways of battle. That was true. But she still did not understand the ways of males. That would be the ways of troops to you. She considered them sub-chee, things to be used as pawns in battle and for the use of Breeders. Servants and such. Not real people.”

“I don't think I'm that much of a misogynist,” the CO said, nodding, “but please continue.”

“Then she received a batman from an older officer who was retiring,” Lady Che-chee said, reminiscently. “He was an old male for a fighter, much scarred. She considered him much like any batman, a person to be bidden and which had to be constantly ridden on even the simplest task. Oh, he could brush fur well enough and was useful for carrying armor, but not really chee. Do you understand me?”

“I'm with you,” the CO said, taking a sip of coffee. “So what happened?”

“Then the officer was put in charge of one segment of a large battle, separated from her superiors. And the enemy was simply better. More motivated, more elan as the French put it. The officer's troops, caring little which overlord dominated them, were breaking. And the young officer was confused and unsure, not being used to losing. She froze in the midst of battle, with lower ranked Mothers asking her what she should do. And she did not know. And then the batman said something very simple and seemingly pointless. And he touched her. Kicked her, actually, in the back of the leg and said: 'If you can't punch them in the snout, step on their foot.' ”

“And you realized that men had brains,” the CO said. “Miss Moon has brains aplenty. What she doesn't have is a lick of common sense. And she drives me nuts. Then there's the fact that it's proven that males have reduced logic in the presence of sexual cues. Miss Moon, quite consistently, wears clothing that is one huge sexual cue. It throws off the psychology of the ship and interferes with the working of the crew. Sorry, but I won't have it. What happened to the batman? Retired with great seniority and a farm, I hope.”

“Oh, I had to kill him for the offense of striking me,” the colonel said. “But I did so sadly. He really was quite good at brushing fur. But he also made me realize that, yes, males were not sub-chee. They saw what was going on around them and responded on the basis of it. From then on I paid much more attention to my males and I was rewarded for it with performance. I'm not talking about Miss Moon at all, you see, Captain. At least, not directly. The problem is not Miss Moon, exactly. But you might want to have a quiet talk about her with one of your junior males. You would find something surprising.”

He was just about the most junior seaman on the ship, a sensor tech straight out of A school. He never would have been considered for the mission if it wasn't for the fact that the Blade's sensor systems were so new, nobody senior had any experience on them. Half the crew was like that, guys straight out of A school who were the only people with a clue how their systems worked and not much of one.

“Sit down,” Prael said. “You're not in any trouble and you're not going to get in any trouble for anything that's said in this compartment. I'll add that I'd like you to keep quiet about what we talk about, but I figure that will last three days and then you'll let something slip. And you won't get in trouble for that, either.”

“Yes, sir, Captain, sir,” the seaman said, sitting down at attention.

“I'd say calm down but I know you're not going to,” Prael said, grinning. “Here's the deal. I've been hearing some rumors about the crew and Miss Moon. I need to know the substance of the rumors. Again, no matter what you tell me, nothing will leave this compartment. No Captain's Mast, no articles. That is guaranteed. Do you believe me?”

“You're the CO, sir,” the seaman said, really sweating now.

“So, what's going on with Miss Moon?” the CO asked then waited.

“Sir, I think I'm going to stand on my Article Thirty-Two rights,” the seaman said after clearly dredging the phrase out of buried memory.

“Look, seaman, nobody is going to get in trouble,” the CO said. “Unless I don't get any answers. And I think you can give me those answers. So if I don't get any answers, then there's trouble. Simple as that. No trouble for answers, lots of trouble for no answers. Especially once I get to the bottom of what's going on. So talk.”

“Sir,” the seaman squeaked. “It's nothing . . . bad. Honest to God, sir!”

“So what is 'it'?” Prael asked.

“Sir, I'm straight out of A school,” the seaman said, desperately. “I was distinguished graduate. I've got two years of college. I was getting a physics degree but my scholarship ran out. I figured, do a few years in the Navy, get the money to go back. When I took the tests they said I could pick anything and there was particle sensor tech! The description was like a dream! The transfer credits are going to wipe out my junior year! So I went for that and I did really good. I did, sir!”

“I've seen your evaluations,” Prael said sympathetically.

“But it's not like I've got my masters, sir!” the seaman said. “And the damned petty officers don't know chither, pardon my Adar, sir. They barely understand what the particles are, much less the physics of the interactions. So then the damned sensor starts giving me these really funky readings when we're in deep space and I report them and they tell me to run a diagnostic and I've got faults that I don't understand and they don't understand . . .” He trailed off desperately, not wanting to admit that he'd violated a fully lawful order. Doing so, especially since the ship was in what was referred to as “combat condition” didn't just mean Captain's Mast, it could mean a full court-martial.